


Anchored

by bigsoftboy



Series: Living Free [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author is Trans and Ace, Blind Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Communication, Discussions of Asexuality, Eye Trauma, Fix-It, Gender Dysphoria, Happy Ending, Hospitalization, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Episode: e159 The Last (The Magnus Archives), Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Mutilation, Survivor Guilt, Temporary Amnesia, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 44,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24818686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigsoftboy/pseuds/bigsoftboy
Summary: “So I have a choice to make. Either go back to the Institute and continue to live off of scraps until it kills me, or…”Jon trails off, and there’s a silence as Martin seems to process what he has said. Then it clicks.“Jon.”-Jon makes a choice. Together they make things work.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Living Free [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077437
Comments: 284
Kudos: 833
Collections: TMA Escaping Beholding Via Eye Trauma Fics





	1. Disruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin enjoy some long-awaited peace. The question is, how long will it last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this about five days after I finished Season 4 because I desperately just want these two to be happy.
> 
> Will try to update every Friday!
> 
> Enjoy!

They had arrived in Scotland two weeks ago, and all things considered, it’d been… good, thus far, though the first few days were a difficult adjustment period. The cabin was old, and it was clear no one had set foot in it for months, if not years, so the first few hours following their arrival had been dedicated to unpacking, dusting, and scrubbing down the grime-encrusted bathroom. It was a welcome distraction from the overwhelming reality of their situation, though, and Jon had let himself get lost in the mindless work. Whilst cleaning they had discovered there was only a meagre assortment of canned foods in the cupboards, hardly enough to last the two of them more than a few meals. Neither of them had been particularly keen on making the journey into the nearest town to get groceries that day, not after everything they had been through. They ate canned soup and green beans and whilst it was far from the best meal Jon had ever had, it was made better by sharing it with Martin. 

Martin had seemed distant, caught up in his own thoughts, which Jon assumed was a lingering effect of the Lonely. He did his best to centre him whenever he could, whether it be by softly calling his name, or simply placing his hand over Martin’s. His skin, Jon had noticed, had slowly regained the warmth that had been sapped from him by the Lonely the longer they spent at each other's side.

They didn’t talk about things at first, still recovering from physical and emotional tolls of the previous day. The train ride north had been spent mostly in silence, one filled with a mix of apprehension, relief, and exhaustion. They had sat pressed into each other’s side, Jon leaning his head against Martin’s shoulder and Martin laying his head against Jon’s. It was almost surprising how easily they fell into that casual intimacy, considering all that had come before it, but Jon had known they both needed the contact, had both been craving it for god knows how long. 

The closest they’d come to broaching the looming subject of where exactly their relationship stood was when it came time for them to turn in for the night. It had only somewhat registered in his mind when they had made their first walk through the house that there was only a single bed. It made sense, and he had taken note of it upon their arrival, yet the implications behind it had not felt so crushingly important to Jon until he and Martin had stood side by side at the foot of the bed, stuck in an impasse. Jon had begun to say that he would take the couch, let Martin get some sleep as he’d needed it more than Jon had, but he had been cut off by a quiet but firm plea of “stay.” And so he had.

Most of the first couple of days were occupied by trivial matters, things like groceries and checking in with Basira. Martin had brought a handful of books from his flat, mostly poetry anthologies, though they weren’t of much interest to Jon. There was only one poet whose work Jon actually found himself enjoying and, well, he wasn’t quite ready to admit that aloud, not just yet.

They had discovered early on that Jon is a far more adept cook than Martin, who had survived mostly on ready-meals for the past decade or so. He can cook when the situation calls for it, he had insisted as Jon watched him, eyebrow quirked and a bemused smile playing at his lips, he just thought it not worth the effort most days. Jon, on the other hand, had grown up helping his grandmother in the kitchen, and while he’s far from a culinary expert, he’s certainly capable of following recipes and yielding more than acceptable results. Martin had looked as though he was about to pass out when he had tried the tikka masala Jon made on their second night. While not the best cook, Martin starts helping Jon around the kitchen where he can, chopping vegetables, stirring pots, mixing ingredients. Jon finds himself somewhat overwhelmed by the domesticity of it all. 

The casual touches hadn’t stopped after their arrival. Jon found himself leaning into Martin’s side on the couch as they read their respective books or chatted about little things they’d never had the chance to discuss. More than once Martin had lightly pressed a hand to the small of his back as he squeezed past him in the kitchen, and it had just felt natural. The subject still hadn’t been broached, however, neither of them quite ready to have that conversation, all things considered.

It had culminated in one unremarkable morning, as they’d taken their time waking up fully, simply basking in the comfort of each other’s company. They had lain facing one another, Martin with his hand placed over Jon’s, absently brushing his thumb up and down against his skin. Maybe it was something about how the gentle sunlight filtering through the windows fell upon his face, making him look as though he was glowing, or perhaps just that happy, content smile on his lips as he stared at where their hands rested, Jon really can’t say what it was. But something in that moment had made his breath catch in his throat, made his heart feel light and warm and thunder in his chest in a way he’s not sure he’d ever felt before. The words had slipped out without even needing to think about them.

“I love you.”

It had cut through the silence and made Jon’s heart race, shocked by how assuredly and easily the words had come despite having never said them before. Martin’s eyes had snapped to his in an instant, a look of brief shock melting into something like quiet awe as he’d held Jon’s gaze. He’d said nothing for a moment, seemingly too caught off guard to formulate any coherent response. 

Then comes the breathless reply, “I love you, too, Jon.”

And Jon, finally acting on a desire he’d been holding back for far too long, had reached up to cup Martin’s cheek, leaning forward. He’d hesitated, looking Martin in the eyes to confirm that he wanted this too, and in response, Martin had closed the distance between them, pressing his lips softly to Jon’s and Jon had all but melted. It had been a short kiss, but full of so much emotion Jon was sure he was going to drown in it. 

They’d leaned their foreheads together, and Jon had started giggling. Martin had laughed lightly in response, shooting him a gentle look of confusion.

“What’s so funny?” he’d asked, and Jon had shaken his head, unable to contain the grin that had overtaken his face.

“Nothing, nothing, I just… I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he’d admitted, and Martin had made a small, bewildered noise.

“Yeah? Well, I’ve wanted to do that for nearly three years at this point,” he’d said, then immediately flushed at the admission. Jon had stared at him, stunned. He’d known Martin had had feelings for him but had never imagined they’d have gone that far back.

“Three years?” he asked softly, a feeling of guilt pooling in his stomach. “Even when I was—?”

“ _Yes_ , Jon, even when you were a complete ass,” Martin had cut him off, grabbing his hand and intertwining their fingers. “Though it wasn’t until you let me stay in the Archives after Prentiss that it really became a full-blown crush, before that it was kind of just a passing thought because well… I mean look at you.”

Jon had furrowed his brow, not understanding what the implication was.

“What about me?” he’d asked, and Martin had frowned. Instantly Jon had worried he’d said something wrong, but then Martin had leaned forward and pressed another kiss to his lips and all that worry melted away in an instant.

“You are _ridiculously_ attractive. Definitely one of the most handsome men I’ve ever met,” Martin had told him, and Jon had flushed.

“Martin, I’m n—”

He had been cut off by another kiss and at that point had almost completely lost his composure.

“Don’t you dare try to tell me otherwise. You’re gorgeous,” Martin said, and Jon had stared at him for a moment, face burning, before burying it in Martin’s chest, letting out a small noise of protest. He feels Martin chuckle above him, wrapping an arm around him to pull him closer. They’d lain like that for a few minutes, Jon attempting to collect himself enough to resume the conversation at hand.

“I— you— …Martin, you’re very attractive as well, I…” he’d trailed off, refusing to look up at Martin’s face, but he’d still heard how his heartbeat had sped up. “I’m not very good at articulating these kinds of thoughts.”

“It’s alright,” had come the quiet response, and Jon could tell from his voice alone that he was as flustered as Jon was.

“I… when we first met, I was struck by how handsome you were and was, ah, too stubborn to admit it to myself for a long time,” Jon had said, squeezing Martin’s hand. “I don’t think there was any specific point when I started fancying you, but it’s been well over a year now. It wasn’t until I was laying low at Georgie’s and she started teasing me about how much I talked about you that I really realized.”

“Y-you talked about me a lot?”

Jon had laughed.

“Almost constantly," he’d said, cheeks still flaming. Part of him hadn’t believed he was admitting this, but it had felt nice. "Got to a point where she would just give me this look every time I started going on until I noticed and got too embarrassed to continue. She never _really_ called me out on it, though she would tease me about it every now and then.”

“Wow…” Martin had supplied, making Jon smile and settle back so he could see Martin’s face again. “I… did you know? That I fancied you?”

Jon had hummed, looking down at their interlocked fingers. 

“Suspected," he told him "And there was some, er, _office gossip_ , that got caught on tape while I was travelling that kind of confirmed it for me.” 

Martin had gone red. “Oh, er, yeah… that,” he’d said helplessly. “Suppose I wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Jon had chuckled, watching him fondly. He had started to say something else before being cut off by the grumble of his own stomach. Martin had snorted before sitting up and stretching.

“We should uh, definitely continue this conversation later but maybe we can have some breakfast first?” Martin had suggested, and Jon had smiled and nodded. They had plenty of time to talk.

* * *

Things have continued on relatively smoothly, the two of them managing to keep themselves busy enough to avoid cabin fever. They had started taking walks in the countryside, seeing the mountains and rolling moorland and _lots_ of cows. Jon adores how Martin’s face lights up every time they spot one, and even more so when it’s close enough to touch (although Jon always discourages it, thinking there’s no being _too_ cautious around the large animals). 

The longer they stay here, though, the hungrier he gets. He’s been cut off completely from statements, neither of them having had the foresight to grab some before fleeing the Institute. Martin had gotten into contact with Basira, and she’d agreed to send some up to them as soon as the Archives weren't an active crime scene, though exactly how long it will be until then is uncertain. He feels weak and hungry and it’s an extremely uncomfortable state of being.

It was inevitable that it would happen eventually. Jon had specifically been avoiding public places for the sole purpose of avoiding this, but the isolation had started to get to him. They had figured a single grocery trip to the nearby village couldn’t hurt. It’s a small community, what are the chances of encountering someone with a statement to give? Jon relishes in the mundanity of the trip, lingering in _simple_ choices like which brand of crisps to buy. It’s a nice change of pace from everything they’ve dealt with the past few years.

Then he finds himself unable to look away from an elderly man at the end of their aisle. The man had had an encounter with the Dark as a teenager, Jon can Sense it, and the dreadful but familiar feeling of compulsion threatening to fall forth from his lips takes hold of his senses. He’s been cut off from statements for two weeks at this point, and it feels as if he’s starving. He supposes, in a way, he is.

Martin turns to say something to him and then freezes, following his gaze to the man who’s captured his interest. As Jon begins to approach him, legs moving of their own accord, Martin moves faster, pulling him into a tight embrace. He quickly recognizes the action as an effort to restrain him and starts to struggle. He thrashes, desperation overwhelming all of his thoughts, the need to collect knowledge, to _feed_ on this man’s fear taking over. He tries to shout, but his voice is muffled against Martin’s chest.

“ _Jon_ , Jon listen to me, _listen_ , you _can’t_ ,” he hears Martin frantically whisper, trying to ground him, keep him centred. He continues to flail helplessly, though Martin’s grip doesn’t loosen. 

The man seems to notice the commotion at the end of the aisle and fixes them with a nervous look before hurriedly moving to another aisle. Once he’s gone, Jon begins to calm down, breathing heavily. Eventually, he falls limp in Martin’s arms, whatever energy he’d had left in him sapped away by his fit. 

“Can you stand?” Martin asks, and Jon shakes his head weakly.

“Give me a minute,” he whispers back, doing his best to collect himself. “Thank you, for that, genuinely.”

Martin doesn’t respond, simply carding a hand through Jon’s hair and sighing.

Jon has to lean on Martin for support on their way out, drawing a concerned look from the check-out clerk. The walk back to the cabin isn’t easy. Once outside of the village, Martin stops them and crouches down as if to offer a piggyback ride.

“Come on, I’ll carry you.”

“I— you’re already carrying the groceries Martin, wouldn’t that be—?”

“Trust me, I’ll be fine.”

While normally he would have objected, Jon is so drained that he follows Martin’s instructions without further protest, relaxing as Martin lifts him with an ease that startles him. The man is big, standing a good seven inches taller than Jon, and it wasn’t exactly a stretch to assume he’s stronger, but the ease with which he lifts Jon—as well as their groceries… 

He holds on tightly, nestling his face in the crook of Martin’s neck. Neither of them speaks another word, and after about ten minutes, Jon’s grasp on consciousness finally slips away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've drawn quite a few doodles/illustrations for this au already that can be found [here](https://reidspng.tumblr.com/tagged/blinded!jon)!
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	2. A Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon weighs his options.

Jon awakens in bed to find that night has fallen. He shifts under the blankets and then groans, his entire body aching at even the slightest of movements. It’s a dull, pervasive ache, one that doesn’t seem to be eased through adjusting his position. His limbs feel heavy, making each movement both painful and difficult. He sighs, resolving not to move unless absolutely necessary.

As his body begins to wake up fully, thoughts of the close encounter in the store come flooding back and he shuts his eyes, not wanting to have to think about it just yet. He knows it’s bad. The hunger is worse now than it has ever been, and it’s one of the worst feelings he’s ever experienced. He recalls that Basira is sending statements, but those are essentially table scraps at this point. He’d already gone months on only reading old statements and it had hardly helped then, so he can’t imagine it’ll do much good now. He’s in too deep. Soon, feeding directly from the source is going to be his only option. 

He’s not sure how much longer he can go on like this, frankly. What exactly are they waiting for? He knows they’re here under the pretence of being out of the way until the police investigation is concluded, but what will they do when they go back? Jonah will be waiting for them, and Jon is tired, _so_ tired of bowing to his every whim. He knows that Jonah has _something_ planned for him, even if he doesn’t know quite what it is. He has little desire to go back, and he’s doubtful that going back would do anyone any good.

But he knows what he has to do if he _doesn’t_ go back, if he doesn’t want to live the rest of his life starved, and it _terrifies_ him. He’s still trying to decide whether or not it scares him more than the prospect of returning to the Institute, though.

There’s a knock at the door before it opens and Martin enters, holding a bowl and a tin of crackers in one hand.

“Hey,” he says softly, shutting the door quietly with his foot. “Brought you supper.”

Jon gives him a tired smile and sits up, wincing slightly at the movement. Martin sits down on the bed beside him, passing him the bowl. Chicken noodle soup.

“Thank you,” Jon says quietly, suddenly realizing how hungry he is in the normal, human sort of hunger. He digs in, Martin watching him with a look of thinly veiled concern across his face. Jon pauses, setting his spoon down. “I’m sorry, about earlier.”

“It’s not your fault, you don’t need to—”

“I do though, I…” Jon trails off, trying to choose his words carefully. “I’m sorry you have to deal with all of this, you don’t deserve this.”

“I don't care, Jon,” Martin says firmly. “If I cared, if this bothered me that much, I would have left a long time ago. I'm choosing to stay, it's not out of some feeling of... _obligation_. I just worry about you.”

 _Yes, worrying about the monster you have to physically restrain from feeding on other peoples’ traumas_ , he thinks bitterly but says nothing. He knows what kind of response it would draw from Martin, so he leaves it. He isn’t eager to have one of those conversations again, not now. 

There’s a silence between them for a few moments and Jon resumes his meal, hoping to sate at least one of the hungers gnawing away at him. Then his mind begins to trail back to the overwhelming choice now weighing at the forefront of his thoughts.

“I have a choice to make,” he says aloud, and Martin starts, blinking in confusion

“How so?”

Jon clenches his jaw, absently stirring the remaining broth in his bowl and refusing to meet Martin’s gaze.

“I can’t keep doing this forever,” he says, and before he can second guess his own thoughts he barrels on. “Even if Basira sends statements, those will only do so much good. Old statements are like… like eating a packet of crisps at this point, and I think it’s just going to get harder and harder to sate the hunger. Like an addiction.”

He chuckles humorlessly. 

“Suppose it is one, in a way,” he says, rubbing his face absently. “So I have a choice to make. Either go back to the Institute and continue to live off of scraps until it kills me, or…”

Jon trails off, and there’s a silence as Martin seems to process what he has said. Then it clicks.

“ _Jon_.”

“You don’t know what it’s like, Martin,” he starts, running his fingers through his hair “The hunger. It’s constantly there, weighing on me, compelling me to seek out statements, to _hunt_ for them. You’ve seen how little energy I have, and this is only going to get worse.”

“You— I- I know, Jon but you— we’ve _talked_ about this, we don’t know what could happen,” Martin says hurriedly, voice laced with panic. “Y-you could _die_.”

“Yes, well I don’t think that going on like this can really be considered _living_ , either, Martin.”

Martin sucks in a breath and goes quiet. Jon’s gut twists. As much as he’s enjoyed his time spent with Martin the past couple weeks, he knows they can’t just ignore this forever. The more he talks through it the stronger his conviction grows. He reaches out and places a hand over Martin’s.

“Look, I-I love you, but… right now I’m essentially Eli— _Jonah’s_ pawn to do with as he pleases and there is _no way_ he’d just let us go this easily,” Jon says gently. “What are we doing here, if not trying to escape it all? Do you _really_ want to go back? We weren’t stopping anything; the rituals are all doomed to fail with or without our interference. If we go back we would just be continuing to feed the Eye, and for me, that would mean hurting more people and _I_ _can’t do that_ _anymore_.”

Martin is quiet for a moment before speaking up again. 

“Jon, I know a lot of things have changed since you first told me about this… plan, but this… this isn’t one of them,” he says, voice quivering slightly. There’s a mixture of fear and dismay in his voice. “I-I can’t follow you on this. I can’t blind myself, Jon.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Jon says without missing a beat. “You… you’re not as bound to the Eye as I am. You don’t depend on it in the same way I do, not yet. You’re safe, I think, or as safe as you can be, all things considered. I, on the other hand….”

“You’re really considering this? Aren’t you afraid—?”

“Of course I am!” he blurts out, looking to meet Martin’s eyes. He sees a look of terror brewing in them, matching the same queasy feeling settled in his own stomach. “Of course, I’m afraid, Martin, I just… I can’t live the rest of my life a starving… whatever I am, and Jonah certainly isn’t through with me. Peter said he was planning his own ritual, and frankly, I want no part in it. As much as I want to Know, to learn more… I’m done. I need… I need out.”

He trails off, staring intently down at the woven blanket spread across his lap. He’s terrified, there’s no denying that. He’s never been a brave man and no matter how many times he’s faced death, it doesn’t make this any easier. He’s also terrified of losing Martin. He’s not sure if he can even follow through on this plan without Martin’s support. He’s his last anchor, and losing him would almost certainly set him irretrievably adrift.

He hears Martin sigh deeply. He doesn’t have to look at him to know how tense he is.

“You’re sure there’s no other… less painful way?” Martin asks, and Jon laughs hollowly.

“I’ve had worms burrow into my skin, ribs pulled from my chest, nearly suffocated in the Buried, had my hand burnt to a crisp, and stabbed on multiple occasions," he says. "Pain is far from my biggest concern.”

Martin makes a small sound of discomfort.

“No, I know… there are worse things than going blind but just… willfully doing it to yourself… _Christ_ ,” he says, and Jon hums. “How would you do it?”

“Stabbing or gouging has too many risks outside of just the vision loss and it’s a lot harder to explain, so I’d rather avoid that," he says. "I think I’ll have to go the chemical route. Probably bleach or something like that.”

Martin winces. “And what if something goes wrong?" he asks. "W-what if severing your connection has other effects on you?” 

Jon rubs at his face apprehensive. “We’ll have to deal with those as they come I suppose," Jon says, leaning his forehead forward so that it rests against Martin’s shoulder. "I don’t doubt there’ll be… _consequences_ , but we’ve no way of predicting what they may be.”

Martin is quiet, and they sit together, a feeling of dread now sitting heavy in their chests. They’d both known the peace wouldn't last forever, and Jon hates that he had to be the one to break it.

“So… should we do it now then?” Martin asks, tension clear in his voice. Jon chuckles humourlessly.

“God no, we need to prepare first," he says. "Get first aid supplies, maybe plan a bit in terms of the cottage’s layout. If I recall correctly we used the last of the bleach Daisy had stored here when tidying up, so we’ll need to get that as well.”

He laces his fingers through Martin’s, studying the difference in the sizes of their hands, trying to memorize the image of it. Martin’s hands are larger than his, and he has a few freckles dotted along his knuckles. Jon’s fingers are long and slender while Martin’s are short and a bit thicker. Jon feels warmth spread through his chest just seeing how they slot together so easily, despite these differences. Different, but together they work.

“How soon, then?”

“As soon as possible, I suppose,” Jon sighs. “The longer we wait the more opportunity Jonah has to act on whatever plans he has.”

“Day after tomorrow, maybe?” Martin suggests, and only once the date is in the air is Jon struck by how soon it is. He knows he said ‘as soon as possible’ only a moment before but having a specific date, one so close to now, it’s different. 

He nods.

“Yeah,” he says firmly, steeling himself. “Day after tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Communication? Between TMA characters?? Who would have thought!
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	3. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin take care of some loose ends.

The next morning is sombre and quiet. They wake and prepare breakfast in near silence, hardly a word passing between the two of them. With the terrifying weight of the next day’s plans hanging over them, any gentle banter that would normally fill the silence feels inappropriate, wrong.

Jon is still exhausted from their encounter the day before, so Martin offers quietly to make the trip into town in order to pick up the bleach and other supplies. 

“I… I couldn’t really sleep last night so I spent some time planning out what we’ll probably need,” he admits quietly, making Jon’s heart ache. “I was thinking maybe some saline solution? Just to flush your eyes until an ambulance arrives. There’s not really a whole lot we can do on our own.”

Jon nods, staring down at the plate from breakfast that he’d been drying off. 

“I’ll erm, do a bit of organizing. Figure out how to make the place more accessible,” he says. 

He figures there’s really not much to do. The cabin is mostly empty with only a front room, kitchen, bathroom, and the loft bedroom (and he supposes the adjoining attic space, but that was completely barren other than some loose rope and a few other oddities). The furnishings are the bare minimum, no real decorations to be seen other than a handful of trinkets Martin had bought their first week in order to liven up the place a bit. Beyond that, their toiletries in the bathroom and the travel bags discarded in the corner of the bedroom are the few signs the place is even occupied. He can’t imagine arranging it into something accessible for a newly blinded person would take all that much time.

Martin hums in acknowledgement.

“I’ll be back soon, shouldn’t take more than an hour,” he says, smiling in a way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll let you know if I see any good cows while I’m out.”

“Take pictures,” Jon finds himself blurting out, surprising both of them. He pauses momentarily, abashed. “T-take pictures, please. I… I want to see them, before…”

Martin watches him as he trails off, a look of profound sadness in his eyes but he nods. “Of course.”

And with that, he leaves, and Jon is left alone in the cabin that somehow feels both too large and too small at the same time.

He starts out simply walking around the house, trying to memorize the layout. Nothing seems to be too close together, so navigating probably won’t be too much of an issue. The most difficult parts will probably be things like walking up and down the stairs, learning how to cook again without being able to see what he’s doing, working. He wishes momentarily that the cabin had service, or at least wifi, just so he could research this appropriately. He’s sure there will be so many little things that he’s never given a second thought that will suddenly be so much harder. There’s no way he’ll be able to think of them all without help. He needs a list.

After several minutes of fumbling around with their kitchen utensils, attempting to organize them in a way that’s more sensible, he gives in to impulse and grabs his coat. The cabin is on a backroad a good thirty-minute walk from the village. There may be no signal here, but a week ago Martin had discovered their neighbour about ten minutes away has an open wifi connection. They had agreed not to exploit it unless absolutely necessary to avoid the risk of being tracked, but this feels necessary. He sets off at a brisk pace, wanting to be back before Martin returns. 

As he walks he finds himself appreciating the countryside in a way he hasn’t before. It’s not a particularly nice day; the air is humid, the sky obscured entirely by clouds, and it’s just cool enough to be uncomfortable. Still, he looks out at the sprawling fields and distant mountains and for a moment finds himself overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. He does his best to memorize every tree, each of the few scattered cottages, every little detail. All the mundane beauties of the world that he’s taken for granted until now, all the things he’ll never experience again after tomorrow.

He’s so taken by the scenery that he doesn’t notice at first when he reaches the spot he’d set out for, having to backtrack when he realizes he’s walked too far. He retrieves his phone from his pocket, reminding himself of the reason he’d come here in the first place.

And so Jon stands there, surrounded by the quaint landscape of the Scottish countryside, and begins scouring the internet for resources for newly blinded individuals. He finds an article titled “Home Modifications for the Visually Impaired or Blind – The Complete Guide” and taps on it, skimming through the wall of text. He’s quickly overwhelmed by just how much information there is and starts taking screenshots. Most of it looks to be things that would need more than just a day’s preparation, such as installing handrails in the bathroom or buying furniture with textured upholstery. He figures some of it is easy enough, though, such as using rubber bands to make important items more distinguishable. He decides to review the modifications in more detail when he returns to the cabin, pocketing his phone and beginning to make his way back to the cabin.

The walk back isn’t nearly as pleasant as the journey out, mind now occupied by tactile markers and phone entry systems and braille labels. He finds it near impossible to focus on his surroundings, staring blankly ahead until the cabin comes back into sight. 

* * *

Later that afternoon, they lay on the couch, Jon’s head resting in Martin’s lap as Martin runs his fingers through his hair soothingly. It had been another forty minutes after his return to the cabin before Martin had arrived, and in that time Jon had occupied himself with following what instructions from the article that he could. He had used some old hair ties in place of rubber bands and did a bit more organization, doing his best to memorize the placement of necessary items. He’d been glad when Martin returned, no longer left alone to brew in his own thoughts. He’d come across so much information but lacked the means to actually act upon most of it, so by the time Martin had arrived he had begun to feel restless. His boyfriend’s company was a welcome distraction.

Martin had been unable to find any saline, limited as they were to the inventory of the local SPAR, but had gotten a small container of bleach. It now sat on an otherwise empty shelf in the bathroom, a daunting blue bottle that set Jon on edge to even be around.

They’d spent a bit of time laying out a plan of action for tomorrow; due to the lack of service in the cabin, Martin would leave and call 999 first while Jon does the actual deed, and then Martin would return to help flush Jon’s eyes until the ambulance arrives. Their cover story would be that Jon had been getting the bleach down from the shelf and it had spilt down on his face due to the lid not being screwed on properly. They’re not sure whether it will work, but they don’t really have much in the way of alternatives. Now they’re taking a moment to relax, trying to do anything but think about the next day’s activities.

As Martin cards his fingers through Jon’s hair, a thought comes to him.

“Martin… do you remember what I’d told you on the train ride?” he asks, and Martin looks down at him quizzically.

“I mean it was a ten-hour long train ride, you told me a few things,” he says, a subdued bubble of humour behind the words. “Remind me?”

“A-about my hair,” Jon says, and realization dawns on Martin’s face.

“You— now?”

“I mean, might as well. One less thing to worry about after… well.” Jon trails off, not needing to finish his sentence for Martin to understand.

Jon had, for a while, been itching to cut his hair. He can’t remember the last time he’d had a proper haircut, the wavy locks now falling nearly to the small of his back. If he had to guess, he’d place it around when he began his position as Archivist. He does enjoy the “aesthetic,” he supposes, but it’s just another weight, another thing he has to worry about maintaining. It also doesn’t help that on the bad days it sparks a deep, unpleasant stir of dysphoria in him that he wishes would have faded by now, but alas.

He’d told Martin all of this on the train, save for the dysphoria part, murmuring quietly how he’s felt the strong urge to simply take a buzzer to his head for quite a while now. Martin had agreed quietly, but neither of them had mentioned it since. There’s no time like the present, he supposes.

“I did bring a clipper with us, I usually do my own hair to uh… well erm, never mind that, I-I can cut it for you now, I’ll just need to go grab it and a towel… a-and scissors, too,” Martin rambles, and Jon simply hums in affirmation, watching Martin fondly. Martin stares back down at him for a moment and then taps his fingers gently again Jon’s head. “You’ll need to, ah, move if I’m gonna go get those?”

Jon flushes and nods, sitting up and shifting to a sitting position.

“Should I get a chair?” he asks as Martin rises.

“Just bring one of the chairs from the table into the bathroom, it’ll be easier to clean up there,” Martin replies, and Jon nods, rising to his feet slowly. His body still aches, although he’s not unaccustomed to that at this point. 

A few minutes later Jon is sitting in front of the bathroom mirror, a towel wrapped around his shoulders and feeling somewhat apprehensive. There’s an intimacy to this that he hasn’t experienced in a long time, not since the first time Georgie had buzzed his hair for him back in uni. That had been the first time he’d had his hair cut since figuring out the whole… _gender_ thing, and it had been one of the most freeing things he’s ever done. He hopes that now, with everything going on, that this may help centre him. A small point of control amid the chaos.

Martin carefully pulls his hair back into a loose ponytail, and Jon shuts his eyes, leaning back into the contact. He hears Martin chuckle above him and smiles.

There’s a brief moment of silence between them as Jon hears Martin pick up the scissors, grasping the ponytail with his other hand. Jon feels him hesitate.

“You’re sure about this?”

“Yes.”

Jon surprises himself with the lack of hesitation before he says the word. This is what he needs to do.

There’s another brief pause, and then a crisp _snip_ fills the silence of the room and his head feels so much lighter. He breathes out, not yet opening his eyes. He knows it’ll look messy right now, best to wait until Martin’s done.

“R-right, that’s that part done,” Martin says, shuffling around and, Jon assumes, setting aside the loose ponytail of hair. “Now for the clippers. I think I’ll just use a five, does that sound good?”

Jon nods. “I trust you,” he says and hears Martin take in a breath.

The clippers turn on, and the room is filled with a steady buzzing. As Martin begins to shave off what’s left of his hair, he sighs, savouring the sensation. He feels clippings of hair fall against his neck and knows that the towel they’ve set out isn’t going to help all that much with the mess, but he finds he doesn’t care. He’ll take cleaning up a mess for this feeling of freedom any day. He quite honestly wishes they’d done this sooner.

Jon lets himself zone out, focused only on the gentle hum of the clippers and the soothing press of it against his scalp. It’s been a long time since he’d fully shaved his head, and he’d forgotten how nice it feels.

All too soon the clippers flip off and Jon opens his eyes. Without his glasses, much of the room is blurry, formless blobs of colour, but he can see clearly enough to see himself in the mirror. 

“All done,” Martin says softly, and Jon can hear the nerves in his voice. “What d’you think?”

Jon studies himself in the mirror momentarily. The freshly cut, short hair curls slightly, blending into his recently trimmed beard. He can clearly see all the places where the once black hairs have given way to grey. He looks different, so much different than he did all those years ago when Georgie had shaved his head in her shitty apartment’s bathroom, but he’s still him. In all honesty, he looks more like himself now than he did then, he thinks. Even with all the scars and premature worry lines and the circles under his eyes, it’s _him_.

“It’s perfect,” he replies, and Martin beams.

* * *

When they find their way to bed that night there’s not much ceremony to it. Neither of them speaks a word as they slip under the covers, lying together in silence. They lie facing one another, and Jon finds himself unable to do anything but study Martin’s face. 

He maps out in his head all the soft curves of his face, his three-day-old patchy stubble, the four moles dotted across his cheeks, the way his hair splays messily across his face. Every little detail, he does his best to internalize it, store it in his mind so that he’ll never forget it. He reaches out and cups his cheek, revelling in how his cheek squish against the touch. Jon leans forward and presses a gentle, unhurried kiss to Martin’s lips, lingering there for a moment before pulling away to take in the dusting of pink now overtaking his features.

“What was that for?” Martin says breathlessly, eyes wide and full of quiet adoration.

“Just… trying to memorize your face,” Jon replies.

At that, Martin sucks in a breath, looking dangerously close to tears. Before Jon can sputter out a hurried apology, Martin reaches forward and pulls him into a tight embrace. Jon relaxes almost instantly, melting into the touch and clutching tightly at Martin’s worn out t-shirt.

“I love you,” Martin says shakily, and Jon’s heart lurches in his chest. He’s not sure how long it’ll take him to get used to hearing that. “I love you so, so much, and no matter what happens tomorrow just know I’ll be there for you, okay?”

Now Jon feels hot tears welling up and clenches his jaw, his grip on Martin’s shirt becoming vice-like. He nods, pressing his face against Martin’s shoulder. He may be terrified of what’s to come, but knowing Martin will be there with him through it all brings him a staggering measure of comfort. He lets out a shuddering breath.

“Thank you,” he manages to choke out, and he feels a tear escape him. It’s then, for the first time since arriving at the safehouse and even longer before that, that he finally loses his composure. All the emotions that he’s kept pent up through the last few years that he always pushed to the back of his mind, never giving any consideration, come pouring out and he just cries, and cries, and cries. And Martin is there, holding him through it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some melancholy fluff for yall (plus some trans stuff)!! ~
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	4. Unbound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon breaks free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check endnotes for content warnings.

Jon stands in the bathroom, alone, clutching the small jug of bleach tightly in his hands. This is it.

They had awoken that morning and said nothing, only exchanging a quick, chaste kiss before Martin got up to use the toilet. Their breakfast had consisted of hardly touched cereal, neither of them having much of an appetite. Once they’d put away their dishes, they had sat on the couch together in silence for a while until Martin rose to his feet, saying he’d go make the call. Jon, as much as he’d wanted to protest, to delay the inevitable for just another hour, had simply nodded. They both know that this is for the best, that, should things go as planned, they’ll be free. 

Then again, things rarely seem to go as planned when it comes to the two of them, Jon thinks.

Martin left to call 999 five minutes ago, meaning Jon has about thirty minutes before the ambulance arrives. He takes in a deep breath, uncapping the bleach. And then he finds himself frozen, unable to lift his arms any further.

It’s the same feeling as when he’d discovered the tape that showed him this way out, of every fibre of his being screaming at him to drop the bottle, get as far away from it as possible. The Eye doesn’t want him to follow through with this,  _ obviously  _ it doesn’t, and because of that, it’s not going to make it easy for him.

He’s not sure how long he sits there in limbo, fighting hard enough not to drop the bottle but unable to raise it any higher. He knows he has to want this, to be entirely sure that he wants to break the connection in order for it to work, even if it terrifies him. He clenches his jaw and stares down at the container resolutely. Slowly, his fear and apprehensions begin to fade, giving way to deep-seated, determined and spiteful anger. He refuses to live another day like this, to make any more innocent people suffer, to roam the dreams of those he’s forced to relive their fears, to be a pawn in Jonah’s ritual.

It’s not the first time he’s had that last thought, having been thrown out in postulation once or twice since they’d left the Institute, but this time there’s a certainty behind it that finally drives his hands upwards. He breaks free from whatever hold the Eye has had on him and pours the alkali directly into his waiting eyes.

The burning is instant. He cries out, dropping the bleach to the ground as his hands grasp as his face. The pain is intense, although not unlike the burning grasp of Jude Perry’s. All things considered, it’s not as bad as he thought it would be.

But then something shifts and the worst pain Jon has ever felt descends on him in an instant. He screams, collapsing to his knees. Of all the gruesome, painful injuries he’s experienced in the past three years, nothing could even  _ begin  _ to compare to this. It feels as though something has been thrust inside his head and is now violently gouging out his brain. It completely supersedes any pain from his eyes, and he doubles over, overcome with pure agony. 

The once ever-present “door” keeping at bay a ceaseless sea of knowledge is gone, excruciatingly torn from his mind and leaving behind a gaping wound which he can hardly begin to comprehend the severity of. The emptiness is palpable. Where before sat the Eye’s omniscient presence, feeding him information and compelling him to in turn feed  _ it _ , is now simply a void. He grasps for it desperately, his prior determination to rid himself of the Eye’s control momentarily forgotten as every inch of him aches to reconnect, to Know once more. It’s as if he’s a fish who’s thrown himself from a lake, now floundering, desperate to return to the familiar safety of the water. 

He feels pain and exhaustion lancing through his body that he’s sure the Watcher’s power had been stifling until now. He can’t be sure if he’s human once more and this is his body catching up on all the abuse it’s been subjected to these past few months, or if he’s just a monster who’s now been cut off from his only lifeline.

Distantly he hears the front door open, and then, as a fresh wave of pure, unrelenting pain washes over him, he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: eye trauma, graphic descriptions of pain/injury.
> 
> Sorry, this is a rough one.
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	5. Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings at the end of the chapter!

When Jon awakens, he sees nothing. His eyes are still closed and he can feel something covering them, but he knows that removing it wouldn’t change anything, because what he’s perceiving isn’t darkness, it’s just… nothing.

Almost as soon as he processes this, he’s met with the worst headache he’s ever felt and considering he’s prone to migraines, that’s saying something.

He lets out a weak groan, and hears something—or someone—move nearby. He starts to hear all of the sounds in whatever room he’s in: the sound of a clock ticking, the beep of a heart monitor, an underlying whir of machinery fans. That, combined with the throbbing headache and lingering pain in his eyes, quickly overwhelms him. He whimpers slightly and hears more movement, interpreting it as someone moving closer to him.

“Jon?”

The rush of warmth that hearing Martin’s voice brings him is only somewhat dampened by how loud his voice is relative to the sounds before. Even so, he flinches, and his whole body aches.

“Martin?” he rasps out quietly, and he hears a sigh nearby and suddenly there’s a hand holding his, squeezing it gently.

“ _Thank god_ , I was so scared, you—,” Martin begins to ramble, cutting himself off. Jon can hear the relief in his voice and squeezes his hand back with whatever strength he can muster. “You’ve been in a coma for the last six days. I-I knew it w-wasn’t like last time because y-you were still breathing and your heart hadn’t stopped but... the doctors didn’t know what was wrong with you and it wasn’t like I could tell them you’d just cut off your connection to some _eldritch fear god_ or whatever, so they’ve just been monitoring your brain activity and it was _really weird_ the first few days and… I was just so scared, Jon.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says quietly, his headache beginning to recede to a lingering dull ache. The longer he’s conscious the more he adjusts to the sudden sensory input. 

There’s a quiet pause and Jon can feel Martin hesitating. He doesn’t push him, though, too exhausted to try, so they sit together in silence, fingers interlocked lightly but securely.

“So… it worked, right?” 

And there it is.

Jon thinks and realizes that beyond the headache, there’s a distinct absence of knowledge not his own threatening to slip through into his head. He also realizes that, for the first time since he’d woken up in February, he isn’t _hungry_. There’s no desire brewing in him to hunt down statements weighing at the back of his mind. Not only that, but the constant feeling of being watched that has plagued him ever since he began working in the Archives also seems to be gone.

“I think so,” he replies, unable to stifle a small, relieved laugh. “Definitely can’t see anything, in either the physiological or supernatural sense.”

“Good, that’s— that’s good,” Martin says, sounding a bit breathless. “I-I had kind of figured because they told me it was probably near impossible that they’d be able to save your vision and just the way I found you— your eyes were all _glowy_ for a minute, but also…

“When you did it, I felt this… this _shift_. It was like t-that feeling of being watched that we all felt? It was just suddenly gone. I didn’t really have time to think about it because it happened pretty much right when I got back to the cabin and I had to worry about flushing your eyes, but once we were in the ambulance and got within range of service, I got a call. I wasn’t sure who it was, so I picked up and it was _Elias—_ or, well, _Jonah_ , and he was _furious_. He started ranting like ‘Do you know what you’ve done?’ and ‘I’ve bided my time for over a century and I was _this close_ ,” some other ominous bullshit like that, and suddenly I just cut him off, said ‘We quit,’ and hung up!”

“You… you were able to quit?” Jon asks, bewildered. “But… that would mean—”

“It must be the Archivist that ties assistants to the Institute, not Jonah,” Martin says gleefully. “I called Basira and let her know and she quit as well, so now Jonah has no one. I mean, _officially_ Daisy hasn’t quit yet, I suppose, but…”

“It was me all along,” Jon says, trailing off. He’s thrilled that Martin and Basira are now free, but knowing this now, knowing that had he followed through with this sooner, Melanie wouldn’t have had to do the same... If he’d died at the hands of the Circus or Prentiss then maybe Tim… 

Martin seems to realize what train of thought he’s going down, and squeezes his hand tightly.

“You couldn’t have known, Jon,” he says, voice firm. “We can’t change the past, what matters now is that we’re all free, and you’re alive.”

Jon doesn’t respond, lying still and trying not to let himself get too caught up in speculation. It doesn’t stop the guilt now hanging heavy over his head, this new knowledge a constant reminder of the people he’d failed to protect.

“I’m going to go call a nurse, tell them you’re up so they can run their tests or whatever,” Martin says finally, and Jon nods, not trusting himself to say another word.

The next hour passes in a blur. The room fills with nurses and doctors, too many people for Jon to keep track of all the voices. One of the doctors informs him that due to the nature of the burns it’s unlikely that he’ll regain his vision. He simply nods in response, doing his best to hide any signs of relief the news brings. He’s sure that would probably be cause for concern to anyone not privy to his situation. 

They prescribe him with a heavy regimen of oral antibiotics, eyedrops, topical steroids, and pain medication. (He groans internally at this. He’s always hated pills.) They inform him that they’d like to hold him for a few more days in order to monitor his condition, and if he seems to be recovering fine then they’ll discharge him to Martin’s care. The doctor uses the word “partner” when referring to Martin and he can’t help but smile, face heating up slightly.

Finally, the last of the nurses leave the room, one telling him that he would be brought dinner in a couple of hours. He’s not particularly hungry, but figures he should probably still eat considering he hasn’t eaten anything in days. 

Jon hears the scaping of a chair along the floor and then the sound of someone—who he assumes to be Martin—sitting down. Then he feels a hand grasp his again, and he instantly interlocks their fingers.

“I erm, I reckon you’re probably not up for it right now but I uh, downloaded some podcasts and audiobooks for you while you were out, so you’ll have something to do,” Martin says softly, and Jon’s heart swells.

“Thank you,” he replies, squeezing Martin’s hand. “I love you, so much. I— thank you for staying with me, through all of this.”

“Of course,” Martin replies without hesitation, sounding as though there’s nowhere he’d rather be. “I love you, too, Jon. I’d never let you go through this alone.”

Jon nods wordlessly, swallowing tightly. As much as he’d like to stay awake, maybe listen to something Martin had saved for him, he can feel exhaustion dragging him down. He’s still struggling to process what exactly has happened the last thirty minutes or so, and as much as he tries he can’t recall in any clarity the events directly leading up to his hospitalization. He isn’t even quite sure where they are, beyond it being a hospital. Trying to think about it any further just exhausts him more. It seems that, despite having been unconscious for the past six days, his body wants nothing more than to rest.

“I’m uh… I think I’m going to sleep for a bit,” Jon says. “Wake me up when they bring dinner?”

“Okay,” Martin replies, and to Jon’s displeasure, he feels him drop his hand. His disappointment is brief though, as only seconds later Martin’s hand tentatively cups his cheek. Martin tilts his head carefully, and then Jon feels soft lips pressed gently against his. 

The action catches him a bit off guard, but the hand is enough of a warning to keep him from jumping, After a moment Martin pulls away, caressing his cheek with his thumb before withdrawing his hand entirely. Jon lies there, face flushed and head spinning.

“Get some rest, I’ll be here when you wake up,” Martin says quietly, and Jon can hear him sit back in his chair. “It’s… it’s good to have you back.”

Jon nods off with a smile still on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Hospitalization.
> 
> Hey yall! Thank you so much for the overwhelmingly positive response to the first four chapters, I'm so so glad you all enjoy this so much!! Hopefully this mostly happy chapter helps as a distraction from the current angstiness of canon!
> 
> Special thank you to @piano_gavin for betaing!! Ur the best I appreciate you sm.
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	6. Blank Slate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon faces the consequences of his decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the endnotes for content warnings!

When Jon wakes up, he can’t see, and he doesn’t know where he is.

Panic seizes him and his heartbeat picks up rapidly. He attempts to reorientate himself, but trying to open his eyes hurts and even closed he can tell that he can’t see _anything_. He tries and tries to remember where he might be, why he can’t see anything, but nothing seems to stick in his head. He can hear unfamiliar machinery and beeping, so it’s safe to assume it isn’t the cabin. Memories of his captivity at the hands of the circus come flooding back to him, and his breathing quickens.

“Martin?” he calls out, voice strained from fear. He waits a moment, but there’s no response, just that constant beeping and ticking and whirring. It’s then that he _truly_ starts to panic. 

He tries to sit up, finding he’s not restrained in any way, but an aching pain shoots through his entire body, making him fall back. He whimpers, twisting where he lays and feeling a sharp twinge in his arm. He instinctively tries to look down to see the source of the pain, but again, there’s just _nothing_. He feels something covering his eyes and reaches up, starting to pull at what feels like gauze, trying to remove it. 

Then he hears a door opening, followed by a gasp and hurried footsteps. Suddenly there are hands grasping his arms, pulling his hands away from his face, and he thrashes, trying to throw off whoever is restraining him. 

“Jon, Jon, _Jon_ ,” comes a frantic, familiar voice. Jon stills almost instantly, falling limp in Martin’s arms. He breathes heavily, still afraid and unable to recall where he is, but at least Martin is here, which means he’s safe. Probably.

“Jon, what happened, what’s wrong?” Martin asks, voice full of concern. He releases Jon’s arms and he draws them close to his chest.

“M-Martin, where are we, w-why can’t I see anything?” Jon asks, heart still racing and feeling more and more disorientated by the second. 

The silence that hangs in the room following his question does little to ease his panic.

“...Martin?” he says, nervously, and he feels a hand take his and squeeze it, reassuring him that Martin is still there.

“Jon, what’s the last thing you remember?” Martin asks, and something in his tone sets Jon on edge.

“I… us going to sleep after you cut my hair…” he trails off as it clicks in his head. Their plan. “How long ago was that?”

“Six days, about,” Martin replies quietly. “I… we’re at Belford Hospital. We followed through on the plan, you remembered when you woke up earlier but...”

Jon lies there in what he now assumes is a hospital bed, speechless. It explains the emptiness in his head, the distinct absence of the Eye’s presence. He can hardly believe he was able to go through with it, let alone that he _survived_ going through with it.

“So… I guess _amnesia_ is one of the side effects, then,” Jon supplies finally, and Martin makes a small noise of acknowledgement.

“Well, we knew there would probably be _something_ ,” Martin says, sighing. Then he squeezes Jon’s hand tightly before releasing it, and Jon instinctively reaches for him again, making a small sound of displeasure. “I’m going to go get a nurse, tell them what’s going on. They’re probably not going to be able to do much, but… still important for them to know, I guess.”

“Alright,” Jon says, swallowing tightly. “Don’t stay away too long.”

There’s a slight pause before Martin replies.

“I’ll try not to,” he says softly, and Jon hears the rustle of fabric before feeling a kiss planted on his forehead. “I’ll be back.”

The silence seems to drag on forever until it doesn’t, and then Jon wishes for nothing more than its return. His room is flooded by nurses, running various tests, checking his brain activity, asking him question after question to discern how much he can remember until his head is spinning. He’s never been fond of hospitals, which does little to ease his discomfort. The only thing that keeps him grounded through it is Martin’s hand in his, a calming presence that had thankfully returned as soon as the doctors had appeared. 

Jon doesn’t bother paying attention as the doctors talk, catching only bits and pieces of conversations such as “brain imaging” and “retrograde or transient global amnesia.” He knows this isn’t caused by a normal head injury, so there’s not much the doctors can even do to help, let alone the fact they’re saying all of this to _Martin_ , not him. It’s as if he isn’t even there. 

He knows that logically it’s because there’s every chance he won’t be able to recall any information they give him in the next few hours, but there’s that little voice at the back of his mind telling him it’s because of his new condition. He’s heard of how people will often assume blind people cannot speak for themselves and will instead speak to whoever is accompanying them instead of conversing with them directly. He knows it’s something he’ll have to learn to live with now, but he’d really hoped it wouldn’t happen this soon.

“Jon?” 

Martin’s voice breaks him away from his own thoughts, and he realizes with a start that the room is once again empty. He makes a small sound of acknowledgement.

“They’re gone now, one of the nurses brought your dinner, it’s on a tray in front of you,” Martin says gently, and Jon nods, lifting his hand to reach for it before hesitating.

He hasn’t eaten anything yet, at least not that he can remember, anyway. He’s not sure how to go about this.

“Would you like me to help you?” Martin asks him after a moment, and slowly Jon nods. He doesn’t like being so… dependent on another person, but for the time being, he supposes it’s necessary.

He feels Martin’s hand on his, guiding his hand forward. It brushes against what he recognizes as a spork, and he picks it up. Martin then guides his hand forward again and then down.  
“It’s mash, chicken, and peas, are you okay with all of that?” Martin asks.

“I— yes,” Jon says. Probably simpler and significantly less seasoned than what he’s usually partial to, but it’s not like he was expecting a five-star meal at a hospital. “I’m rather hungry, so I’d probably eat about anything right now.”

“Okay then,” Martin says, and Jon’s hand dips down under Martin’s ministrations, and he hears and feels the food being scooped up. It’s odd really. Most people are so dependent on sight for everything they fail to realize just how much of their experience of the word their other senses account for.

Jon lifts his hand slowly, taking over some control but still allowing Martin’s hand to hold his wrist lightly, in case he needs to intervene. He attempts to bring the spoonful to his mouth but overestimates the distance, bumping the spork against his upper lip. He feels what he assumes is a pea drop into his lap and grumbles.

“Sorry!”

“Not your fault, that was on me,” Jon reassures him, and he chuckles. It feels nice to fret over such relatively small inconveniences for once.

He tries again, and this time successfully directs the food to his mouth. His assumptions were correct; the food is bland and hardly even warm anymore, but it’s _food_ at least. He lowers his hand for more and lets Martin guide him back to the tray. 

“How is it?” Martin asks, and Jon smiles.

“Terrible,” he replies, the smile seeping into his voice. “Better than nothing, though.”

“When we get back to the cabin I’ll try making you something,” Martin replies, and Jon’s heart flutters a bit. “I mean, we both know I’m not much of a cook but hopefully helping you has done some good towards improving my abilities.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Jon says softly as Martin helps him scoop up another helping of mash. He chuckles. “Maybe I can be _your_ assistant this time, mince some garlic for you?”

Martin laughs, and _god,_ even if he can no longer watch the way Martin’s face lights up as he laughs, that fact only serves to heighten the joy he feels from hearing it. Hearing Martin laugh and knowing that _he_ is the reason behind it is one of the most gratifying feelings he’s ever experienced.

“Maybe one day,” Martin says, a fondness to his voice. “For now you’ll have to endure some passable bolognese and ready-made pizza.”

Jon manages to successfully guide the spork to his mouth on the first try this time, and he grimaces.

“As long as it’s not overly-steamed peas I’m sure it’ll be lovely,” he remarks, and he hears Martin giggle next to him. “You going to eat as well?”

“Oh, I’ll go down to the canteen once you fall asleep again, don’t worry about me,” Martin says, and Jon frowns. “Really, I don’t mind. I had been getting a snack from the vending machine when you woke up, I’m fine.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I am, really,” Martin says, and Jon can’t detect any hesitation in his voice. “Now, would you like me to cut up the chicken for you or should I just guide you again?  
Jon hesitates for a moment. Part of him wants to insist on continuing letting Martin guide him, to savour the fraction of independence that method affords him, but his energy levels are dropping by the minute, and his head has a residual ache that he isn’t quite sure sleep will fix.

“...Could you cut it?” he asks finally, relinquishing control. “For tonight, at least.”

“Of course.”

There’s a handing off of cutlery, and a comfortable silence falls over the room as Martin cuts up his bland hospital chicken. Things may not be easy, but they’ll figure it out with time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Memory loss, hospitalization, panic attacks, disorientation.
> 
> What's up yall, hope you've had a good week! I promise that Jon's memory problems specifically are not going to be the focus of this fic going forward, it's mostly going to be about general recovery and this is just one part of that. Also, hopefully these chapters will sustain yall through the act break once that hits haha
> 
> Thank you so much for all the kind comments, I promise I read them all even if I don't reply and they really make my day so much better, so thank you!!!
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	7. Adjusting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin settle a disagreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check endnotes for warnings!

“Ah— shit!”

“Sorry!”

“No, no, it’s— it’s fine,” Jon says, steadying himself. “Forgot about the step up, wasn’t your fault.”

It’s been nine days since Jon had first awoken in the hospital—or at least that’s what Martin has told him. His apparent anterograde amnesia has persisted, although according to Martin, they’ve been slowly improving. When he had first woken up, his memory would “reset,” so to speak, every few hours, but after the first couple of days, the length of time he retained his memories had begun to increase incrementally. Martin had been given the job of keeping track of how long Jon is able to retain memories each day. While nothing is certain, the doctors seem hopeful that he may regain enough of his declarative memory that he could return to a relatively normal way of life—beyond the effects his blindness will have on it, of course. Now, Jon is able to retain his new memories for full days, sometimes longer, and he’s begun to retain small details sometimes, such as remembering that he is now blind or that he forgets things.

While he was being released, the doctors expected Jon to return for follow-up appointments three times a week to evaluate how his ocular burns are healing. The doctors seem to be confident that his eyes have healed enough that, while his vision is unlikely to return, there should be no need to remove his eyes entirely.

Martin had called them a taxi to return to the cabin, neither of them feeling keen on taking the bus. The drive from Fort William had been quiet, so Martin played one of the podcasts he had picked out for Jon to listen to. He’d picked out one with self-contained episodes, considering it would be difficult for Jon to follow any long-form shows at the moment. Jon had been pleasantly surprised by how much he enjoyed the one Martin had picked out, one exploring bizarre details of Tudor history. Knowing Martin understood his tastes well enough to find something he would enjoy makes him feel pleasantly warm, almost lightheaded.

It was upon arriving at the cabin that the real difficulties began to reveal themselves. Jon had been provided with a probing cane by the hospital before his departure. While he has no memory of it now, the last few days before he was released, nurses had helped him walk the halls of the hospital while using the cane to aid his movement. Apparently, while his declarative memory is compromised, his procedural memory is still intact, meaning he can still learn new skills, even if he doesn’t remember the actual process of learning those skills. Supposedly, he’d taken to it fairly quickly, but there’s a distinct difference between navigating tiled hospital floors or the mostly flat pavement outside it and trying to walk down the uneven dirt path to the cabin. And, of course, he’d forgotten about the step up. Martin guides him the rest of the way into the house, and here he has a bit easier time navigating. 

As the cabin is mostly empty, there’s ample space for Jon to move around, carefully tapping his way around the room, trying to familiarize himself with it in this new context. It’s odd and somewhat disconcerting, but he knows he’ll acclimate eventually.

“How’re you feeling?” Martin asks from across the room, and Jon pauses to consider. Nothing feels particularly bad, for the time being. It’s only been an hour or so since his last dose of painkillers, so any pain from his eyes is dulled. He still feels tired, though. Other than the short, accompanied walks around the hospital wing, he’s spent most of the past week in bed. He’s eager to be out of bed and doing… _something_ for once, though. He can power through the exhaustion, he decides.

“I think I’m alright for now,” he says, turning to face the direction Martin’s voice had come from. He’s still trying to map the space out in his mind, and he finds it’s frustratingly easy to get himself turned around. “Might as well just… get a feel for the place.”

“Mm,” Martin hums, and Jon hears him walk across the room towards… the kitchen, if he recalls correctly. “Alright, I’m going to make some lunch. Probably just soup again, or something, since most of what we left in the fridge has probably gone off by now.”

“Sounds good,” he says and resumes pacing the room. 

The sounds of Martin bustling around in the kitchen help him get a better sense of his surroundings, giving him a point of sensory input to centre on. As he maps out the space, he’s able to get a general idea of where he is in relation to the table. It helps that he can still recall in some clarity the general layout of the space; an old, worn-out couch that was probably found at a charity shop or even on the side of the road, a low coffee table in front of it that Martin had stacked some books on in order to make the space feel more “lived in,” the small side table near the door where they keep the keys. There’s a rug at the centre of the room, underneath the couch, and the difference in texture between it and the hardwood floors of the cabin is another layer of sensory input to aid him in orientating himself.

After a bit he settles down on the couch, leaning his cane next to him. He reclines, sinking against one of the decorative pillows Martin had bought at the village’s gift shop. The second he sits down, he’s hit with a new wave of exhaustion. The couch, while old and somewhat lumpy in places, is still mostly comfortable, and the room feels safe and warm. He sinks more into it, suddenly finding it difficult to sit upright. His head feels heavy, and his thoughts all seem to run together, becoming fuzzier and fuzzier, until…

“Jon?”

He starts, sitting up straight and hitting his foot against what he assumes is Martin’s ankle. Martin swears under his breath, and Jon tries to shake himself more awake. Had he fallen asleep?  
“I— sorry, what time is it?” Jon asks, feeling a bit sheepish. Since losing his vision he’s had difficulty keeping track of time, and it doesn’t help that he’s been sleeping through most of the day. Apparently, it isn’t uncommon, seeing as his brain now has no means of processing whether it’s light or dark outside, but it’s still not an easy thing to adjust to.

“Still only one o’clock, we just got back about fifteen minutes ago,” Martin says in a soothing tone, and he hears the sound of something—some bowls, probably—being set down on the table. “Did you fall asleep?”

“Just nodded off, I think,” Jon says, trying to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. He doesn’t want to sleep just yet. He’s not fond of just doing nothing, _resting_ , even if there isn’t really much else for him to do. He smells something with a hint of sherry in it. “Soup’s ready, then?”

“Yeah, just some of the canned lentil,” Martin says, though he doesn’t move. “Are you sure you don’t want to take a nap?”

“I’m fine, Martin—”

“Are you, though?” Martin cuts him off, and he purses his lips. “Jon, I _know_ you, I know you have a really bad habit of not taking care of yourself and I’m not going to let you keep doing it, especially when you’re recovering from something as traumatic as _blinding yourself_.”

“I—”

“I’m serious,” Martin says pointedly. “If you’re nodding off after sitting down for only a couple minutes, I think you should rest.”

Jon wants to argue, bite back that he’s able to take care of himself, but the longer he sits there the more the exhaustion starts to drag on him.

He sighs. “Fine,” he says, disgruntled. “Can I eat first, at least?”

“Yeah, of course,” Martin replies, and he hears the sound of the bowl being picked up before a moment later being pressed into his hands. There’s a brief pause before Martin speaks again. “Look, Jon, I know you don’t like me fussing over you, but I worry. Don’t think I’ve forgotten when you tried to come back to work after the Prentiss attack, or how you were back at work two days after waking up from a six-month coma. You have limits and you’ve just been relentlessly pushing them for god knows how long at this point. Can’t keep burning the candle at both ends, and all that.”

Jon makes an unenthusiastic sound of acknowledgement and eats a spoonful of soup. He gets it, he understands what Martin is saying, but he _knows_ his limits and how far he can push them, so he’s fine. He supposes right now he’s not in much of a position to argue, though, so he resigns himself to Martin’s oversight. 

They eat together in silence, and Jon can feel the tension between them. He doesn’t enjoy disagreements. Back when they first transferred to the Archive, Jon would get into debates with the assistants over the smallest of things, nitpick their work down to the most minute of details despite not really knowing what he was doing himself. Looking back, Martin was almost always the target in these cases, much to Jon’s regret. Then he found some sort of catharsis in it, taking out his own insecurities on another person, and he’d distanced himself enough from other people at that point that it hadn’t really bothered him. Now, arguing with Martin just hurts. There’d always been a bit of guilt in the aftermath of his past tirades, but now that guilt is all there is. The catharsis he used to feel is gone. 

In theory, he knows Martin is right. He pushes himself to the end of his limits constantly, but that’s just how he’s always operated. He’d pulled endless all-nighters at university, was always the last person to leave the Institute, and had only taken ten sick days by choice in his entire seven years working there. Maybe it isn’t healthy to be working himself so hard, but it’s not as if he’d come in when it was _dangerous_. Sure, he’d had days where he’d come into work after taking a double dose of migraine medication, but he got migraines enough that it would severely inhibit his productivity if he took sick leave every time he got one. He’d stayed home for ten workdays following his mastectomy back in 2012, and even though that was less than the recommended recovery time, he had felt fine. It had been periareolar, less invasive and therefore a faster recovery period, so it was _fine_. 

“You done?” Martin asks, pulling him out of his thoughts. He scrapes the bottom of the bowl with his spoon, making sure there’s nothing left. He’s glad he was able to get the hang of feeding himself within the first few days. He nods. “Alright, I’ll spot you up the stairs, then.”

Jon hums. Still holding the bowl in one hand, he rises to his feet, retrieving his cane.

“Oh you don’t— Jon, I can take care of dishes,” Martin says immediately.

“You don’t need to do everything for me, you know,” Jon says, frustration seeping into his voice. “I can take care of my own dishes, I need to relearn how to do these things on my own so I might as well start now.”  
An equally frustrated sigh answers. “I _know_ , Jon, but I really don’t think you should be worrying about this while you’re still recovering,” Martin says firmly. “You’ll have time to learn these things when you aren’t falling asleep in your seat, you still need rest.”

“I don’t want to just sit around and do nothing,” Jon contends. The logical part of him sees Martin’s point, but the larger part of him is nothing if not stubborn. “I— I’m tired of sitting around waiting for other people to do things for me, the lack of control, the _helplessness_ , it’s just… I need to be able to do things for myself.”

There’s a brief silence, and then a quiet sigh.

“Okay,” Martin says, his tone much gentler than before, almost resigned. Jon feels a small jolt of guilt pass through him. “I get it, I really do. I… I’ve been there, Jon. But you’re not going to be able to learn these things if you’re not well-rested. How about we do dishes after your nap. You can take the lead, I’ll just… keep watch. Spot you.”

Jon considers for a moment. He doesn’t really want to concede his point, but his worsening exhaustion inclines him to agree with Martin, just this once. Plus, for such a mundane activity, washing dishes with him later is a strangely alluring offer.

“Alright,” Jon says, finally. He realizes in the midst of the argument he had lost his focus on his surroundings, his mental map vanishing. He’s not sure where he is in the room anymore and suddenly feels helpless, vulnerable. It takes him a moment to remember his cane, and probes around, hitting against what he presumes is the couch. 

He sighs. “Should we do the antibiotics first?”

“Oh, right, supposed to do it four times a day, yeah? Martin asks, seemingly pleased by Jon trying to be proactive about his own care rather than menial tasks for once.

“Right,” Jon affirms, and he hears Martin rise to his feet. He feels the weight of the bowl in his hands lessen as Martin grabs the other side, and with only slight hesitation, Jon relinquishes his grasp on it.

“D’you think you can do that on your own, or would you like me to?”

“I can do the ointment fine, I think, but ah, I would... appreciate some help with the bandages,” Jon admits, forcing himself not to brush it off. Normally he would do it, seize complete control despite knowing he can’t handle it, especially when it was willingly offered, but he knows he would struggle with rewrapping the dressings on his own. 

“Of course,” Martin says, moving away. Jon hears him walk into the kitchen, followed by the familiar clatter of dishes being placed in the sink. Then there’s returning footsteps, a hand cupping his cheek, and a soft kiss pressed to the other. “I’ll try not to be too overbearing, give you more space, but please promise me you’ll ask for help when you need it. And rest when you’re feeling tired.”

“Sounds like a fair compromise,” Jon replies, lips quirking up into a small smile. He knows it won’t be as easy as that. They’ll both struggle to maintain their end of the deal, and he knows that Martin knows this as well. Even so, he’s still going to try. “And just so you know, having you around, through all of this, I… it’s nice. I do appreciate it.”

“Ever the wordsmith,” Martin quips, and Jon pouts.

“ _I’ll have you know I have a first in Classics and English from Ox—_ ”

“Yeah, yeah, alright Mr Academia.” Martin laughs. “Really though, I’m glad.”

Jon smiles before reaching forward, finding Martin’s shoulder. He feels his way up to his cheek before gently pulling him down into a kiss. They linger in it for a moment, soft and warm and full of mutual understanding and promise of growing better together. 

Martin pulls back after a moment, placing his hand over Jon’s. “Let's sort out those antibiotics,” he says, and Jon allows himself to be led to their bathroom by interlocked fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of memory loss, brief discussions of medical care.
> 
> Hey yall! Hope you enjoyed this. Letting these two have some good old healthy communication was unbelievably cathartic.
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	8. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin checks the mail.

The next day, Martin goes into town in order to get groceries and update Jon’s doctor on his condition. Jon spends the intervening time listening to the audiobook for _The Order of Time_ on the couch. As much as he wants to find something else to occupy his hands as he listens, he forces himself to stay on the couch. He’d promised Martin that he wouldn’t push himself, and he’s still not fully recovered. 

When he’d woken up this morning, he’d been able to remember with clarity his conversation with Martin the day prior, and that clarity hadn’t dissipated as the day continued, a fact which had been a pleasant surprise for both of them. It was certainly a positive sign, and Martin had been eager to celebrate, promising to do his best to fix up a nice dinner for the both of them.

He finds himself engrossed in the audiobook, and Benedict Cumberbatch’s voice narrating theories of quantum gravity is only mildly distracting from the book’s content. He nearly jumps out of his skin when, an indiscernible amount of time later, he feels a finger tap his shoulder.

He sits bolt upright, quickly removing his earbuds. He hears a nervous chuckle from above him.

“Sorry, not really any better way to get your attention,” Martin says, sounding apologetic. “Tried bustling around a bit but you seemed pretty caught up in whatever you were listening to.”

“Yeah, Christ, that’s going to take some getting used to,” Jon mutters, readjusting himself to a more comfortable sitting position. “You find everything alright?”

“Yep!” Martin says, and Jon hears him walk a few feet away and the sound of crinkling paper. “Got some groceries, and the doctors were happy to hear you’re starting to remember more. I also checked in the post office since Basira said she had sent up the statements before all this and lo and behold.”

He feels Martin’s weight settle next to him, followed by what sounds like an envelope being opened. There’s shuffling and the sounds of paper rustling, and then a distinct clatter of plastic. 

Martin pauses. “Huh.”

“What is it?” Jon asks, not for the first time lamenting his inability to see.

“There are tapes as well,” Martin says. “Basira didn’t mention any tapes... hm. Maybe it was her idea of a varied diet? Eating your greens, you know?”

Jon snorts. “Probably,” he says. “We can listen to them later, I guess. Don’t really need to anymore but hey, maybe it’ll be illuminating in some way.”

Martin makes a small sound of amusement, and Jon hears him rifling through the papers. He goes quiet for a moment, then the turning of a page.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” he says, and Jon frowns.

“What?” he asks, but this time Martin doesn’t respond, and Jon assumes he’s reading something. “Martin, what is it?”

“I— I think Jonah snuck in a statement,” Martin says, and Jon stills.

“What does it say?”

“It’s… it’s about _you_ ,” Martin says, something like fear in his voice. “I— there’s a lot here so I’d need a bit to read through it and based on the first bit I’m not sure if it’s a good idea for me to risk reading it aloud. I think it may be a ritual.”

Jon’s heart thunders in his chest. “Read through it,” he says. “Tell me what it says when you’re done.”

And so Jon waits with bated breath as Martin reads. The minutes seem to stretch on endlessly, and the apprehension and anxiety worsen as the tense silence stretches on. He bounces his leg restlessly, worrying his lip until he tastes blood. When he hears Martin exhale heavily he nearly breathes a sigh of relief.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Martin says, and Jon feels him rise from his spot on the couch next to him, and hears the telltale sounds of him beginning to pace around the room. “ _Right_. Okay.”

“Martin?” Jon says, unable to keep the nerves out of his voice.

“Yeah, right, _so_ ,” Martin rambles, sounding stunned. “Jonah sent this intending for you to read it aloud. Most of it is pretty much just a villain monologue of sorts, but the last bit is some kind of incantation which I assume is the actual ritual.”

“But the rituals don’t _work_ , Gertrude proved that with the People’s Church of the Divine Host,” Jon says, confused. “Jonah _knows_ they don’t work.”

“Yes, well he talks about that bit in his monologue,” Martin replies, returning to his seat on the couch. Jon hears the rustling of paper as he picks up the statement. “He says that he theorizes that all fourteen fears have to be brought into our world at once, so a ritual would have to involve all the fears ‘all under the Eye’s auspices,’ in his words. _You_ were meant to be the conduit for that ritual because you’ve been marked by all of the fears in some way or another.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Jon says, dumbfounded. He leans back into the couch, running a hand through his hair. “I- I suppose with Smirke’s theories about balance, it would make sense. And you probably would have stepped out while I was reading, so you wouldn’t have been there to stop me. It probably would have worked.”

“The woman who gave me the envelope said it had arrived two weeks ago,” Martin says, laughing without humour. “The day after you blinded yourself. That’s why Elias was so angry over the phone.”

They sit together in heavy silence. One day. Had they waited one day longer he may have relented, just taken the statements and resigned himself to living half-starved for the rest of his existence, and if he had… It doesn’t bear thinking about what could have happened.

“I almost ended the world,” Jon says blankly. His voice comes out hollow. He knows he should feel relieved, take some solace in the fact that he had made the right choice in blinding himself when he did, but he doesn’t. Instead, his mind is caught in a hopeless spiral imagining what horrors he could have unleashed had he had just _one_ moment of weakness.

“You didn’t, though,” Martin says, and Jon feels a hand cup his cheek. Despite himself, he leans into it. “You cut yourself off before he could use you. What you did _prevented the apocalypse_.”

“It should have never gotten that far, though,” Jon says, clenching his jaw. “I could have quit, I _should have_ quit all those years ago, back when Prentiss and Michael first started engaging us.”

“You couldn’t have quit, though, you know that—”  
“I didn’t know it _then_ , though!” Jon says, frustrated. “I didn’t even _try_ to leave, I was so damn _curious_ that I pushed on even despite the hell it put me through. My stubbornness could have gotten so many people killed— hell, it _did_. If I had just relented sooner then Tim—”

“Hey, alright, _no_ ,” Martin cuts him off, and Jon feels himself being pulled to him. He sinks down again Martin’s chest, trembling slightly. “You’re not going down this spiral again. You couldn’t have known. You didn’t figure out how to leave until Elias was gone and by that point, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference between blinding yourself then and now.”

“Daisy—”

“Was already struggling, and that wasn't because of you,” Martin says firmly. He runs his hand up and down Jon’s back soothingly. “You can’t blame yourself for everything, Jon. We can’t go back and change the past, and it’s not going to do you any good to sit here and speculate about what could have happened if you hadn’t blinded yourself. You did, and now we’re here, and that’s what matters.”

Jon goes quiet, any rebuttals that come to mind quickly dying on his tongue. He grimaces. “Jonah will try again,” he says. “Now that I’ve quit he can find a new Archivist and start all over.”

“Would he, though?” Martin asks. “I mean, after doing all this to make sure you were marked, that failure must have been a pretty harsh blow.”

“He’s immortal,” Jon points out. “Even if he has to wait hundreds of years before starting again, he _has_ that kind of time. I… I don’t think I can just go about my life knowing what he’s planning and just… do nothing about it.”

“Well, what are we meant to do about it?” Martin asks. “It’s not as if either of us has any spooky powers anymore. Jonah has like, limited omniscience, he’d always be one step ahead of us.”

“Leitner was never tied to any entities and he still managed to hide his movements from him,” Jon points out, sitting back. “If we’re careful, we could go in, find his body. Maybe finish what Gertrude had started.”

Martin is quiet for a moment, hand still absently stroking Jon’s back. “Let’s not worry about this now,” he says, and Jon makes a discontented noise. “I’m totally on board to take Jonah down once and for all, but… we should wait. Make sure you’re recovered first and then _really_ plan out our approach. Not like our other plans.”

Jon grumbles. “Fine,” he concedes. Not like he can argue that their other plans had worked out _well_.

“I know it’s a whole… ‘engaging on your own terms’ thing, but it’ll be better this way. Safer.”

“As safe as killing your immortal ex-boss can be,” Jon points out, and Martin huffs out a laugh. “You’re right, though. We can connect with Basira and make a plan later. For now, I think you had promised dinner?”

“Oh, right!” Martin says, sounding eager. “I got a recipe book from the Woollen Mill, thought I’d try one of the curry recipes?”

“Sounds lovely,” Jon says. He reaches forward, finding Martin’s cheek and then leaning in. His lips press against the corner of Martin’s in a clumsy kiss, and Martin giggles slightly. Jon feels a hand on his jaw as Martin gently guides him into a proper kiss, and he sighs contentedly. 

Kissing Martin is a feeling he knows he’ll never grow tired of. The soft press of his lips against his is intoxicating, making his head spin. For a moment all thoughts of Jonah and the ritual leave his mind, and he just let himself get lost in the closeness, the feeling of safety and belonging and the overwhelming sense of gratitude for having been granted the chance to experience this.

The spell is broken as Martin breaks away, breathless. He laughs softly. “S-so, are you going to let me get up and cook or—?”

Jon cuts him off with another kiss before pulling away long enough to offer a response. “In a minute,” he says, and then kisses him again before Martin can get in another word. He can feel Martin fighting back a smile against his lips.

* * *

Martin’s curry is delicious. Jon will admit he is somewhat biased, considering he’s been surviving off of terrible hospital food for the past week, but the home-cooked meal is a godsend. The aroma permeates every inch of the cabin and it makes Jon feel at home in a way that he hasn’t experienced in a long time. He asks Martin for a second helping upon finishing his first, and Martin stutters out an “of course” and Jon can imagine the flush spreading across his cheeks.

As Martin had cooked, Jon had occupied himself with listening to the rest of his audiobook, though he’d found that his thoughts kept trailing back to the cassette tapes that had arrived with the statements. He figures they must be Gertrude’s tapes, and therefore could provide them with some further context for Jonah’s plan. He holds off on listening to them, however, wanting to wait until Martin can listen as well. Listening to them on his own feels reckless, if not just outright dangerous now.

After they finished eating, Martin watches Jon as he does the dishes, though Martin steps in once he gets to the knives. Even Jon admits that it probably would not be wise of him to handle sharp instruments at the moment. Martin helps him put the leftover curry away, and he manages to spoon it into the tupperware with minimal spillage.

Once they’ve finished cleaning up, they sit together on the couch in heavy silence, wrapped in a blanket and the battered tape recorder Jon had brought with them all those weeks ago grasped in his hands. He handles the old device cautiously, as if one wrong move could set off a chain of detonations. At this point, he’s not quite sure if there’s such a thing as being “too” cautious.

“Which one first?” Martin asks, breaking the silence.

There had been four tapes in the envelope, only two of which were marked with Gertrude’s handwriting according to Martin.

“One of the unmarked ones,” he says after a moment. His curiosity and apprehension over their contents outweigh his desire to turn to Gertrude’s tapes for more information.

He hears clattering sounds and then Martin takes the recorder from his hands. After a moment there’s a click, and then the familiar whir of a tape being played fills the room.

_‘Careful!’_

Martin’s voice on the recording makes Jon tense immediately. For a moment, he’s not sure when the tape is from, but the collective shout of “ _Surprise!_ ” from his old assistants brings that into clarity. He remembers this day clearly. His twenty-eighth birthday, September 22nd, 2015; not long after taking his position as the Archivist but still months before Prentiss besieged the Institute. 

He falls into a sort of trance, mind not processing anything beyond the voices on the tape. The coldness in his tone on the recording sends shivers down his spine. Looking back, he can hardly believe how terrible he was to them, and regret coils in his chest, weighing so heavy he finds it hard to breathe. 

He starts when he feels a hand on his back.

“Do you need to stop?” Martin asks quietly, and Jon can hear poorly masked sadness beneath the concern. “You’re shaking—”

“I’m fine, let’s just listen,” Jon replies. It’s hard hearing their voices again, after so long, especially in the case of Sasha. This is the _real_ Sasha, the woman whose voice he no longer recognizes as hers. Still, he listens, desperate for any new information the tape may provide.

Jon makes a startled sound as he feels Martin’s arms wrap around his middle and lift him almost effortlessly, pulling him into his lap. The movement is enough to distract him momentarily, and he flushes. He always forgets how strong Martin is, or at least how easy he is for him to move around when he needs to. 

He settles against Martin, turning to wrap his arms around him and hold him. The warmth of Martin’s body against his helps keep him centred as they listen, and he doesn’t find himself lost in that headspace again as they press onward, listening to long-forgotten memories and searching them for answers they might have missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's upppp this was a fun chapter to write bc haha Jonah's plan failed u puny Victorian fool!!! >:)))
> 
> The act one intermission is here for episodes so I hope these updates will be a nice little TMA supplemental till September!
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	9. Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes a small confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check endnotes for warnings!

“What are you working on?” Jon asks one night. The gentle scribbling sound stops and he feels the sheets rustle slightly.

“Oh, erm, nothing much,” Martin replies softly. Jon hears what sounds like embarrassment in his tone.

It’s been a couple of weeks since they’d returned to the cabin, and they’ve fallen into something akin to normalcy. His memory problems have resolved to an extent that he can remember most of the events of the previous day, although often needing some prompting from Martin. Now that his memory has mostly recovered, he’s been progressing much faster in terms of self-sufficiency. Martin has been helping him relearn how to cook, and he’s been finding it much easier to operate than he would have thought. They’ve been taking it slowly, as per Martin’s request, and Jon feels confident that, with practice, he’ll eventually be able to cook independently again. The relief this had brought him was incredibly satisfying.

After spending days pouring over the tapes, they had been unable to glean much new information from them. All they knew now was that Sasha was meant to have been the next Archivist, and that, had the ritual been completed, it probably would have been impossible for them to undo. The second fact in particular has weighed heavy on Jon’s conscience, although he’s avoided speaking much on the subject. He knows that he shouldn’t be so hung up on a hypothetical, but he can’t help but feel guilty.

Martin seems content to explain away the tapes as premature gloating included in the package by Elias, though Jon isn’t so sure. Though Martin tells him he hadn’t noticed any webs in the envelope when he opened it, Jon had a sneaking suspicion that the tapes were the Web’s doing. He’d listened to the tapes a few times over but hadn’t been able to glean much else from them, too preoccupied with thoughts of the Watcher’s Crown. He had listened to Gertrude’s tapes more times than the other two, finding it too painful to hear Sasha and Tim’s voices again. 

He had begun to run out of things to listen to, having made it through the bulk of the podcast episodes that Martin had downloaded, as well as all of the audiobooks. Currently, he’s making his way through _Lore_ , though he figures it won’t last him long. There’s not much to do out here in the middle of nowhere and Jon’s always been the type to binge books in one sitting, so he’s exhausted his entertainment resources quickly. 

Which brings them to the present, Jon laying in bed next to Martin with nothing to do other than listen to Martin scribble away in a notebook.

“Is it a poem?” Jon asks, though he already knows the answer.

“I, erm, yeah, it is,” Martin says, voice coming out high, and Jon holds back a fond smile. “It, uh, it helps, y’know? Sort of cathartic.”

Jon hums, sitting up in bed before leaning over against Martin’s side. He opens his mouth to speak, but then hesitates, feeling bashful. He can feel his cheeks heating up and swallows nervously.

“Would you, ah… would you read some to me?” he asks, and his voice sounds far too loud in the small room for how softly the question is posed. “Any of your poems, if you wouldn’t mind.”

There’s a silence, though there’s no tension in it. Jon feels his blush worsen, and his hand grips the duvet tightly.

“I thought you didn’t like my poetry,” Martin says. There’s no venom in his words, but Jon still recoils from them. “I found your old ‘supplemental’ tapes while you were away, something about how my style was too ‘obviously enamoured with Keats.’”

“I…” Jon trails off, fighting down his growing embarrassment. Here it is, the one thing he still isn’t sure if he’s quite ready to admit aloud. “I was perhaps too harsh in my judgement. Your pieces were very affecting, but I was suspicious of you back then and had frankly never been one for poetry.

“When I woke up from my coma, and you were working with Peter, I… I missed you. I missed having you around, hearing your voice. I needed that familiarity, and I needed _you_ , but you didn’t want me to seek you out and I wasn’t going to turn around and disregard your wishes so I went digging through old tapes. I-I figured I could probably find a few with your voice on them, and, well, I _did…_ but they weren’t all statements.”

There’s a brief silence.

“ _You found the tapes I recorded?_ ” Martin squeaks out. He sounds nearly as embarrassed as Jon feels, though for entirely different reasons. Jon can hardly believe he’s admitting this. “Oh Jesus, Jon, I’m _so_ sorry they’re _so bad_ I should have brought them back home with me—”

“They weren’t bad, Martin, they were lovely,” Jon cuts him off, cheeks still blazing. Martin goes quiet again, and Jon wonders if he’s blushing as well. “I… I only found a couple, but I listened to them so many times _I_ could probably recite them now. It definitely kept me grounded throughout the last few months. There was one I assume was about me and… I— I’ve never… no one has ever spoken like that about me. It was lovely. _You’re_ lovely.”

“I— t-thank you,” Martin stutters out, still sounding flustered.

“I will say, your _serious poet_ voice is quite entertaining, though,” Jon says, unable to hold back a grin as Martin shoves him gently, making a small noise of protest.

“As if _you’re_ any better, I’ve heard some of the voices you’ve done in statements,” Martin retorts. “You’re the _definition_ of a theatre kid.”

“Well I _did_ do am-dram at uni,” Jon says, leaning against Martin’s shoulder. “Really though, I found it endearing.”

“Well… I’m glad,” Martin says, sounding sheepish but genuinely pleased. “I-if you’d really like me to read some aloud, I’d be happy to. Can’t promise they’ll be any good, though. These are way less revised than the ones I recorded.”

“I don’t mind,” Jon says. “They’re still yours.”

He feels Martin take in a breath at that, and Jon has a feeling that if he wasn’t blushing before, he certainly is now. 

After a moment he hears the sound of pages being turned and Jon relaxes against Martin’s side as he begins to shyly read off one of his poems.

His tone as he reads is more subdued, not playing up the theatrics nearly as much as he had on the tapes. He’s certainly more nervous, stumbling over his words occasionally. Jon wraps his arms around Martin’s upper arm, nuzzling his face against his shoulder in a way that he hopes is reassuring. 

He feels Martin relax, and as he continues to recite his poem, Jon swears he can hear a smile in his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief mentions of memory loss.
> 
> Hope yall enjoyed this soft chapter!! I have a lot of thoughts abt Martin's poetry.
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	10. Reconnecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes a call.

“You’re sure you’re ready to do this?”

Jon doesn’t answer him, simply taking a deep breath and slowly reciting the familiar phone number, having memorized it years ago as his only emergency contact. He hears the beeps as Martin dutifully punches in the numbers. He retreats from the phone booth as it starts to ring, pressing the receiver into Jon’s hand. Jon stands stiffly in the phone booth as he waits. He hears Martin shut the door behind him, though he can still feel a draft seeping in from beneath it.

It’s a milder day, though as December approaches the weather has been getting colder and colder. Jon is bundled up in a thick cardigan, a winter coat, and a woollen scarf, so he’s plenty warm. His doctor had finally decided he no longer needed his eye dressings, so he now felt comfortable making casual journeys into the village with Martin. 

According to Martin, his eyes, once such a dark brown that they had seemed black in certain lightings, are completely clouded over, now a foggy pale blue. He finds it hard to be particularly self-conscious of this, though, seeing as he can’t see it himself and it’s far from the most noticeable scar he carries. If anything, it’s one of the more normal ones. He still wears a pair of sunglasses, in part to hide his unseeing eyes but primarily as protection.

They’ve kept in communication with Basira throughout the recovery process, keeping her updated on how they’re doing while she tells them what she’s heard about the Institute. Jonah hasn’t contacted her further, and according to the handful of people she’d become acquainted with outside of the Archives, he still hasn’t appointed a new Archivist. It’s a relief, but it makes Jon wonder what his plan is at this point, what there is to wait for.

It had been Basira who suggested that he reach out to Melanie, pointing out that she’d gone through a similar recovery process to Jon. At first, Jon had refused, not wanting to bother her further. Logically he knows that she had told him he was welcome as a friend, and while he supposes commiserating over their mutual blindness would fall under that category, he still feels as if he’d be imposing on her much deserved peace. 

Martin had talked him into it, in the end, saying how he should have other people to talk to and that he should reconnect with his friends. Jon doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s not quite sure if they consider him their friend anymore.

His stomach jolts as the ringing cuts off, and he hears jostling over the line. “Hello?

Hearing Georgie’s familiar voice after weeks of only hearing Martin, his doctors, and briefly Basira does some good to soothe his nerves. He exhales shakily.

“H-hi, Georgie,” he says, trying not to let the relief that she picked up at all show too much in his voice. There’s silence over the line, and after a few moments, Jon begins to worry that perhaps she’d been disconnected. “Georgie?”

“Hi, Jon,” she replies, tone icy. Jon winces, shoulders tensing. “What do you want?”

“N-nothing, I just… I just wanted to see how you and Melanie were doing,” he says, doing his best to ignore his impulse to just apologize and hang up.

There’s a sigh audible from Georgie’s end.

“If this is another attempt to rope Melanie back into the Institute's bullshit—”

“It’s not! I promise it’s not, I… I quit.”

Silence.

“You what?” Georgie says, tone now distinctly less cold.

Jon takes a deep breath. “I quit,” he repeats, swallowing nervously. “About a month ago. I-I couldn’t keep living the way I was, so I used some bleach. Totally blind now.”

A pause. “Well _shit_.”

Jon can’t help but chuckle, nerves easing slightly.

“God, Jon, well, I’m proud of you,” she says, sounding somewhat bemused. “Frankly I didn’t think you had it in you to do that.”

“Neither did I,” he admits. “It wasn’t easy. The being we were serving, it was much more reluctant to let me go than it was with Melanie. Had some pretty serious memory problems for the first few weeks, still working through that to some extent.”

“Christ, like amnesia?

“Yes, but the kind where you can’t form new memories rather than losing old ones.”

“Damn. Well, I’m glad that’s getting better.”

“You and me both,” Jon says, leaning against the side of the phone booth. It creaks slightly against his weight.

“So,” Georgie says after a moment, “what’s your plan now?”

“How do you mean?”

“Like what’s your next move?” she asks as if it’s obvious. “You’re free from that freaky eye cult, what are you going to do?”

“I… haven’t really given it much thought,” Jon says after contemplating it a moment. “I suppose we’ll go back down to London eventually since it doesn’t seem like Elias is going to come after us, but I think Martin wants to make sure I’m fully recovered before we make the trip.”

“Hang on, where are you? And Martin’s with you?”

“Oh,” Jon says unhelpfully. He’d forgotten how much Georgie had missed in the interim since he’d last seen her. “We, er, we’re in the Highlands, came up here to hide out after what happened at the Institute—I’m sure you heard about all that. We’re, ah, we’re together, now.”

“You mean you, _Jonathan Sims_ , the most emotionally constipated person I have ever met, actually _talked about your feelings for once_?” she says, sounding positively _gleeful_.

Jon sputters indignantly, feeling his face flushing a nasty red. “I am _not_ ‘emotionally constipated,’” he says, and even he realizes how petulant he sounds.

“Sure, sure, I’m sorry,” Georgie replies, not sounding at all sorry. “Remind me to have a chat with Martin next time I see him, he and I have a _lot_ to talk about.”

Jon grumbles, but he knows it’s just harmless teasing. It feels nice to have this kind of easy conversation with her after well over a year of contention.

“Really though, I’m happy for you both,” she says. “He cares a hell of a lot about you, make sure you treat him right.”

“I know,” Jon says, smiling tightly. He isn’t about to unload his feeling of inadequacy as a partner onto her, especially considering his lingering guilt over how things had ended between them. He’s painfully aware that it had been his own fault, and he’s not about to let that happen again with Martin.

“So, once you two are back in London, what then?” Georgie asks, and Jon hesitates. He knows the answer, but he also knows it’s not going to make her happy.

“Well…” he trails off. He could just not bring it up, but he’s never been a good liar, even by omission. He sighs. “We don’t have a plan yet, but we’re… we’re going to try to destroy the Archives.”

Silence. Anxiety flairs in Jon’s gut once again.

“After all you went through to get out, you’re just going to throw yourself right back in?” Georgie says finally, and there’s no surprise in her tone, only disappointment.

“I’m not exactly keen on it either, Georgie,” Jon replies, frustrated both with her and himself. “Look, after we got back from the hospital, we found a letter from Elias, and it was basically an explanation of his plans and the final chant of a ritual. I was meant to be the catalyst for it. Blinding myself stopped him from completing it, but there’s nothing to stop him from trying again with another Archivist. I can’t just sit back and let that happen knowing I could have done something to stop it.”

“It’s not your responsibility anymore, Jon,” she says, unfazed. “I’m glad you got out, I really am, but I really don’t want _any_ part in this, even if it’s trying to stop it. I don’t think you should either.”

“I… I know,” Jon says. He knew what she would say before he even admitted this all to her. “I’m not asking you to get involved, I’m hoping that Martin, Basira, and I can finish the job and never have to think about the Institute or the Fears ever again. I did just genuinely want to check in with you and Melanie, see if you’re alright. Not really much to do up here.”

There’s a sigh.

“Melanie’s alright, her eyes have healed up alright and she’s starting to get the hang of the cane and everything,” Georgie says, sounding tired. “I’d put her on but she’s taking a nap upstairs. Other than that, for me, things are pretty standard”

“That’s good, I… tell her I said hello,” Jon says softly, feeling rather like he’s overstayed his welcome. “I’ll call again on another day, give some updates. Tell you about all the cows we’ve seen up here.”

There’s a small huff that may have been a laugh. “Sure,” Georgie says. “I’m going to head off, have some editing to get back to for What the Ghost.”

Jon swallows thickly. “O-of course, sorry for keeping you.”

“It’s alright,” she says, and he hears some rustling on her end. “Just… think about what I said, okay?”

“Okay,” Jon replies, mind unpleasantly heavy with an emotion he can’t quite identify. “Talk to you soon.”

“Bye, Jon.”

The line goes dead, and it takes Jon a moment to collect himself enough to return the handset to its cradle. He sighs, scrubbing his hand roughly over his face before turning and feeling for the door handle. He steps out into the cold November air and shivers.

“All done?” Martin says from beside him, making him jump slightly.

“Y-yes,” he says, recovering quickly.

“So, how’d it go?”

Jon sighs. “About as well as expected,” he says, doing his best to mask the feelings roiling in his chest. “Melanie and Georgie are doing alright, that’s what matters.”

“Jon?” There’s concern in his tone that makes his gut twist with guilt. He should be surprised by how easily Martin can read him nowadays, but he finds he isn’t.

“Later,” he says, and the exhaustion in his tone seems to be enough to stall Martin’s questions for now. No doubt it will come up again sooner than he’d prefer. “Let’s… let’s just head home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as happy a place to leave off, I know, but dw, I'm not Jonny (they WILL be okay). We're at roughly the halfway point now!
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	11. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin's sleep is rarely peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the endnotes for content warnings!

Nightmares were something Jon had grown accustomed to over the years. Even before becoming the Archivist, his dreams were plagued with spiders and flies and a face that he could no longer remember when he awoke. It had been a sick sort of reprieve when he’d begun walking the dreams of those whose statements he’d taken. Those dreams fed the Eye, meaning that while unpleasant, they weren’t scary to him. Rather than awakening in a cold sweat, he would awaken to a resounding feeling of guilt, and that was at least something real, something _rational_ that could be dealt with.

With his connection to the Eye severed, however, he no longer has that small reprieve. The spiders are no longer at the forefront of his dreams, but that’s only on account of the many horrors that he has encountered that are far fresher in his mind than that close encounter in his childhood.

Every night is a gamble whether he’ll be trapped wandering through endless, incomprehensible tunnels, or watching his body get distorted and bent into positions it should not be able to form by a hulking figure with too many limbs, or being choked by dark, pulsing vines snaking their way up his body. He’s unsure if these dreams are premonitions, or if they’re all simply the result of his brain processing the hundreds of accounts of supernatural trauma that he’s ingested over the past two years.

Either way, Jon finds himself jolting awake almost every night, never at the same time, struggling to breathe and to calm his racing heart. Sometimes the terror is made worse by gaps in his memory, and especially on nights where he dreams of the Dark, being unable to recall why his vision is gone is particularly distressing.

More often than not he wakes Martin, who always does his best to help, but both of them know there’s little he can do to stop the nightmares. It doesn’t help matters that Martin has his own nightmares to contend with.

Jon hadn’t even noticed Martin’s nightmares at first, too overwhelmed by the lingering terror of his own dreams to notice the waver in Martin’s voice after he’d awoken. Before his blinding, Jon can only recall two occasions that he’d been woken up by the aftermath of one of Martin’s nightmares, though now he suspects that they may have happened more frequently than Martin had let on. 

Tonight, Jon awakens from his own nightmare suddenly, but not overly panicked. He had been walking along the edge of the observation deck atop Tour Montparnasse, which in the dream had no safety rails. He’d lost his footing and fallen over the side, falling for what felt like an eternity before jolting awake right before he hit the ground. It was a fairly mundane dream, as far as his nightmares go, and considering he’s never been particularly bothered by heights, it doesn’t have as great of an effect on him.

The first thing he notices when his heart stops racing is that he can hear Martin’s quiet, quick breaths from the other end of the bed.

“Martin?”

His words feel inaptly loud in the quiet room, but Martin offers no response to them. Jon frowns, reaching out towards where he knows he can hear Martin’s breathing, but his hand makes no contact. The air his hand passes through feels cold and muggy, though, in a way that reminds Jon of fog. Jon hears Martin suck in a breath, and his breathing becomes shallower.

“Oh.”

It doesn’t take much for Jon to piece together what’s happening. He does his best to fight down the fear and concern that immediately clouds his thoughts, trying to stay calm.

“Martin, are you there?” he asks, unsure of how to proceed. Comforting others has never been something that’s come naturally to him, even less so when the other person is unresponsive and he’s unable to offer physical comfort. 

To Jon’s relief, he hears Martin make a small sound of affirmation.

“Okay, okay, erm, h-how can I help, what do you need?” he asks, keeping his tone as level as he can manage. 

Martin doesn’t reply for a minute, but Jon hears his breathing slowly begin to return to normal.

“J-just, being here is good,” he says shakily. His voice is scarily quiet, almost like an echo. “I’ll be back to normal in a bit, just, talk to me, maybe?”

“O-okay, I can do that,” Jon says, sounding more sure than he feels. “Anything in particular you’d like me to talk about?”

“Anything _not_ spooky will do just fine,” Martin says, a little more energy behind his words this time. “Hearing your voice makes it better, I think.”

“Alright, okay, got it,” Jon says. 

Of course, his brain is suddenly void of any thoughts that would fall under the category of “not spooky.” He sits there, floundering for a moment, before finally landing on something.

“Erm, you remember how we started sharing our lunch breaks back in 2016, before… well before everything got turned on its head?” he asks, and Martin hums. “One of the times when I went up to get our order, the cashier told me we made a cute couple and slipped me an extra one of those little biscuits you’d get with your drink.”

He hears a small laugh bubble up from beside him. Jon feels a pang of relief, and he smiles, continuing on.

“I was too flustered to correct her, just thanked her and walked back over to you as quickly as I could,” he says, laughing a bit at himself. “I think that was the first time that I really thought about whether or not I had feelings for you in that way, even though I denied if for a good while after that.”

“Adorable,” Martin supplies, and Jon bristles despite himself.

“I am _not_ adorable,” he says, and he hears Martin laugh again. Then he feels the cold press of Martin’s hand grasping his and any agitation he’d felt is immediately overtaken by relief.

“You can’t claim you’re not adorable after willingly providing a perfect example as to the contrary,” Martin says warmly, his voice much stronger than it had been only moments before. Jon grumbles but squeezes his hand before intertwining their fingers.

Jon’s hands are almost always cold on account of his body’s terrible circulation, but right now his hands are the warmer of the two of them. He turns their hands so Martin’s faces him before bringing it to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to the slowly warming skin.

“Feeling better?” he asks softly, scooting forwards so his knees press against Martin’s.

“Getting there,” Martin replies, and Jon feels him trace his thumb along his. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Jon says, and then he frowns. “Has this happened before?”

There’s an uncomfortable pause.

“It happens whenever I dream about _it_ ,” Martin replies slowly. “The Lonely. I go all foggy and it takes me a few minutes to get back to normal.”

“And how often do you dream about it?” Martin is silent. “Martin?”

“Three times a week? Maybe four?”

Jon’s heart sinks. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, squeezing Martin’s hand tightly. He feels terrible that he hadn’t noticed sooner.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Martin says, his voice small. “You’re already getting so little sleep because of _your_ nightmares and it’s _fine_ , I’ve learned to manage it—”

“Martin,” Jon says firmly, and Martin goes quiet. He feels a slight tremor in his hand that hadn’t been there before, and he sighs. “You need to tell me about these things when they happen.”

“It’s not like you can do anything to stop it—”

“That doesn’t mean that you have to go through it alone,” Jon insists. “That’s what it wants. It _wants_ you to feel isolated, to close yourself off.”

Martin is quiet, though Jon can still hear his steady breathing, and their hands remain linked.

“Think about it this way,” Jon says, trying a different approach. “What if I had been hiding my nightmares from you all this time? Would you want that?”

“ _No_ , obviously not,” Martin replies without hesitation, and he sighs heavily. “I see your point.”

“Good,” Jon says, squeezing Martin’s hand gently. “We need to be able to rely on each other. All of what you’ve told me about learning to accept help, the same goes for you. You don’t need to bottle everything up, especially not for my sake. That isn’t going to help either of us.”

“Okay,” Martin replies, squeezing Jon’s hand back. “What do you want me to do? You’re not exactly the lightest sleeper and it’s not like I can shake you awake while I’m like that.”

Jon considers for a moment. “When I woke up you had moved all the way to the other end of the bed,” he observes. “Would just... being closer to me help?”

“Maybe?” Martin replies, sounding uncertain. “I don’t really know, I’ve been moving away to avoid waking you.”

“I guess that’s the first step then,” Jon says. “Don’t be afraid of waking me, and if I don’t wake up, _please_ tell me in the morning, at least. Talking about it after the fact is bound to be better than just brushing it aside altogether.”

“Alright,” Martin says. He sighs, and Jon feels the impact of his back hitting the bed. “We _really_ need therapy.”

Jon grimaces. “If you’d like to, you should,” he says, lying down beside him carefully.

“How about you?

“My experiences with therapy have been… less than favourable,” he says.

His only experience with a therapist was some counselling sessions after his mother died when he was a child and the handful of mandatory evaluation sessions in order to be approved for hormones and top surgery. His early experiences have certainly tainted his opinion of therapy, at least for himself. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin says quietly. Jon feels him turn before his arm curls around his waist. He readjusts, resting his head against Martin’s chest. “I’ve had some shitty therapists in the past, too.”

“Not so much that they were bad, just… wasn’t in a great place back then and therapy just meant I had to think about the things making my life terrible even more.”

“I mean, it’s not going to be comfortable at first, obviously, but it’s supposed to help you learn to cope with it all,” Martin says. “You talk about the bad things and they give you an objective opinion on how you can best deal with it.”

Jon hums noncommittally. In his experience, the advice given hadn’t been particularly enlightening.

“Maybe you just didn’t match well with the therapist,” Martin suggests. “It’s not always that they’re bad, just that they might not be best suited for your needs. Every therapist is different.”

“Maybe.”

“I wish I’d been seeing a therapist these past few years but… well, it’s not exactly cheap,” Martin says, and Jon can hear poorly concealed frustration in his voice. “Haven’t seen one since back when I started T.”

“Well, I mean, what exactly could we even tell them? ‘Hi, so I’ve spent the last couple years trapped serving an eldritch entity of fear and feeding on the trauma of innocent people at its behest.”

“We could do what Melanie did, give an abridged version of the truth,” Martin points out. “I mean, you don’t have to tell the therapist _everything_ , just the things you want to talk about.”

“I suppose.”

“Just… think about it, at least? It’s not like we could really afford it right now anyway, but… for the future, y’know?”

There’s something comforting about the certainty he places on the idea of a future. Jon sighs and nods. 

“I’ll consider it,” he acquiesces. “How about we try to get at least _some_ sleep tonight.”

“Sure,” Martin says, sounding content. “Not sure what time it is but there’s no light coming through the window yet.”

Jon scoffs “It’s December in Scotland, it could be 6am and there’d still be no light,” he points out and Martin huffs.

“Alright, well, even so, I’m going back to sleep,” Martin says. Jon leans up and presses a quick peck to his jaw, feeling his day-old stubble against his lips.

“Sweet dreams,” Jon says, and Martin snorts softly in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Nightmares (brief mentions of bugs, spiders, body horror), panic attacks, discussions of therapy.
> 
> A more Martin-focused chapter for yall! These boys have got trauma but they're trying their best.
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	12. Intrusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected predicament presents itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the warnings in the endnotes!

Jon doesn’t even notice it at first. It’s now mid-December, meaning he and Martin spend a sizable amount of time in bed under a thick layer of blankets, fireplace crackling in the background. He doesn’t realize until mid-afternoon when he moves to use the bathroom and hears Martin inhale sharply.

“Jon, _Jon_ , there’s— _blood_ ,” he manages to get out, and Jon freezes.

“Where?” he asks, throat tight. He doesn’t feel any pain at the moment so he doesn’t _think_ he’s injured, but the second his mind starts running through possible scenarios, he remembers how he’s been cramping the past few days. Under normal circumstances, he’d brush it off, having had phantom cramps too many times in the past, but now… “Martin, where is it.”

“I— it’s—”

Martin’s tone isn’t panicked, sounding instead more forlorn, compunctious. It’s enough to confirm his suspicions, and he suddenly feels nauseous. He touches the seat of his joggers and is met with dampness.

Stone-faced, he rises from the bed, grabbing his cane and navigating to his laundry. With the hand _not_ stained with blood, he feels around and finds a pair of boxers and some pyjama bottoms. He doesn’t speak as he walks to the stairs, and Martin remains quiet. His silence does little to ease the cold feeling of dread now settled in Jon’s gut. He numbly makes his way down the stairs, finding the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

It had been nearly eight years since the last time he had a period. His cycle had stopped two months after starting testosterone back in 2010, and he had only experienced brief spotting around when he had top surgery due to skipping a dose. 

When he’d woken up from his coma, he’d expected it to return considering he’d missed over twelve doses, but it hadn’t. Aligning himself with the Beholding seemed to have had the added bonus of maintaining his hormone levels, or perhaps he hadn’t been human enough for hormones to be of importance. Regardless, the fact that that bonus would be taken away when he broke his connection hadn’t even crossed his mind. Until now, at least, standing in blood-stained track bottoms and a feeling of overwhelming despair gripping his entire body.

His cycle is back, he has none of his supplies, and Martin _knows_. Martin also being trans should be a comfort to him in this situation, but if anything it just makes the guilt worse. It feels almost like a betrayal; they had been two of the only trans men at the Institute, working together in close quarters for nearly three years, and he’d never told him. Never even given him hints. He should have told him sooner, but he had put it off for so long that the choice had been taken out of his hands.

He cleans himself up silently, face blank but mentally rebuking himself for the choices he’s made. He folds over a thick wad of toilet paper as a makeshift sanitary towel and thinks bitterly that he’ll have to ask Martin to go into the village to get some _actual_ towels. He leans his back against the door and slides down to a sitting position.

Before he started testosterone, periods had never really been a big _thing_ for him. They had just been an unpleasant monthly occurrence that he had learned to manage over the years. He never cried or showed any outward discontentment about it other than being a bit more snappy on the days his cramps were particularly bad. He had been relieved when it had finally stopped, though, its absence making him infinitely more aware of just how much he despised it. Now, it being back after experiencing that relief, it hits him hard.

There’s a soft knock at the door, followed by a quiet voice. “Jon?”

Jon makes no move to stand, clenching his jaw. There’s a sigh on the other side of the door and the sound of shifting feet.

“Jon, are you okay?”

Jon scoffs. “What do _you_ think?”

There’s a pause. “Right, yeah, stupid question,” Martin mumbles, and Jon hears the sound of Martin settling down on the other side of the door. “Suppose we should talk about it?”

Jon grimaces. “I meant to tell you,” he says, and he swallows nervously. “I… it was never meant to go on this long, but… I mean, I-I was a right _asshole_ to you at first and then by the time we got closer we were in the midst of all this ritual shit and it just... never felt like the right time.”

There’s silence from the other side of the door, and Jon waits, anxiety gnawing away at him.

“I knew.”

Jon sits up straight, mind suddenly blank. “You— what?”

Martin sighs heavily. “When you were in the hospital, the first time, your wristband said female on it,” he says, and Jon’s stomach twists. “I asked a nurse about it and they told me that they needed to use assigned sex on the markers for ‘medical reasons,’ but that your actual gender had been noted in the system. I’d had no idea before then.”

“Oh,” Jon says, at a loss. All this anxiety, all this time, and he’d already known. “I… why didn’t you say anything?”

“Like you said, never felt like the right time,” Martin replies. “And I wasn’t… _happy_ that I knew. It felt like an invasion of privacy, like I’d violated your trust. I wish I’d gotten to hear it from you.”

“You aren’t… angry?”

“Why would I be angry?” The response comes with no hesitation, sounding baffled. “It should be your choice who you tell and when you do it. I’m frustrated that I found out the way that I did but I don’t blame _you_ for that.”

Jon knows this and agrees with him, but he’s come to expect that others won’t share that mindset. Or at least, they’ll claim to agree but still feel offended by his omission and treat him accordingly. Martin, at least, sounds genuine. There’s no hint of anger in his tone, only an undercurrent of remorse. Jon still feels lingering guilt over not telling Martin sooner, but this is at least a comfort.

Jon stands, slowly turning and opening the door. There’s a sound of shuffling as Martin gets to his feet as well, and then a brief pause.

“I— is it okay for me to touch you right now?” Martin asks, and Jon’s chest aches. He really doesn’t deserve this man. 

He reaches forward, finding Martin’s t-shirt and grabbing hold of the fabric. He pulls him towards him, resting his head against his shoulder as Martin cautiously responds to his movements, embracing him.

Jon breathes in slowly, doing his best to quell the mix of emotions threatening to spill over at any moment. It’s been years since he’s had to discuss his gender with another person, and he’s _never_ received this affirming of a response. The euphoria from this, mixed with spite over not having given that information of his own volition, and the looming dysphoria brought by his cycle’s return, is overwhelming. He grips at Martin’s shirt and swallows tightly, feeling his eyes brim with tears. He does his best to hold them back, but then Martin runs a hand through his hair, holding his head gently, and it all pours over.

Martin holds him through shuddering breaths, and he holds on to him like a lifeline. It’s not full-on sobbing, not like the night before his blinding, but it still takes him a few minutes to calm down, sniffling quietly.

“Sorry, probably ruined your shirt,” Jon says, and Martin snorts, rubbing his back soothingly.

“Just a ratty old thing I got at a poetry slam back in 2009, it’ll survive,” he says softly. He hesitates, moving his thumb in a circle against Jon’s spine. “Would you like me to pop over to SPAR and get some, er, supplies for you?”

Jon nods minutely against his chest. “Just some sanitary towels, please,” he asks. He _really_ doesn’t like talking about this, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to spend the next week with a wad of rolled-up toilet paper in his pants. “Never liked tampons. A-and some paracetamol if they have any.”

“Of course,” Martin says, pulling away from Jon slowly and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Are you cramping right now?”

“Not really, usually doesn’t pick up until the day after it starts,” he says. He backs up, feeling around for his cane along the wall of the bathroom. “I think I’ll go lie down though, anyways. Maybe change the sheets.”

“Oh, I stripped the bed down already, don’t worry,” Martin reassures him. “I’ll try to make the trip as quick as possible. In the meantime, try to make yourself comfortable.”

Jon offers him a tired smile. “I’ll do my best.”

“How long have you been on T?”

It’s been a couple of hours since Martin returned from the shop, having brought with him not only some towels and paracetamol but also an assortment of Jon’s favourite snack foods. Now they’re in bed, Jon sat between Martin’s legs and leaning back on his chest as Martin massages his abdomen. His cramps had started up sooner than expected, and now he really wishes he had the old heating pad he used to use back in uni. 

Jon sighs, doing the maths in his head. “God, erm, going on nine years in February, I think,” he says. He doesn’t think about it all that often anymore, so he’s momentarily struck by just how long it’s been. “Though that doesn’t account for the fact I haven’t done any shots since last August. I came out during my last year at uni and then started two years later, about a year before I started working at the Institute. What about you? I know you started not long before we got transferred to the Archives, but we didn’t know each other back then.”

“Yeah, it was mid-2014,” Martin confirms. “I’d been out since I was seventeen but couldn’t afford it till I’d been working at the Institute for a few years, and then I had to wait on the NHS waitlist for a couple of years, so it took a while.”

“Mm, the waitlist is _terrible_ ,” Jon says, and Martin hums in agreement.

“When did you get top surgery?” he asks, curiosity in his voice. “Or, I mean, I assume you’ve gotten it since I didn’t see any binders with your stuff, though I haven’t seen you shirtless from what I can recall.”

“Oh, yes, that was uh, me being ‘cautious,’ I suppose,” Jon says, feeling a bit foolish now. “I had periareolar back in 2012 and the scars healed fairly light. They’re somewhat noticeable because of the contrast, so I hadn’t wanted to risk taking my shirt off around you.”

Martin’s hand stills on Jon’s stomach but doesn’t move away. “Would you… would you feel comfortable taking it off now?” he asks, and Jon considers for a moment. He’s not particularly fond of his body—small, rail-thin, and riddled with scars as it is—but he trusts Martin.

“Alright,” Jon says quietly, and he leans forward, reaching up and pulling his jumper over his head. He feels exposed in a way he’s never felt before, but he doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. He’s thankful for the lit fireplace, otherwise, he’d have been both vulnerable _and_ cold. He turns to face Martin, fidgeting with his hands. He hears him inhale softly.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” Martin says, making Jon flush. “I dunno if this is weird but... can I touch you? Just your chest, and uh, scars?”

Jon nods slowly, and after a moment he feels Martin’s warm palm pressed flat against his chest, just above his left nipple. He’d never regained full sensation in the area around his nipples, though he can still feel pressure and heat. Martin moves his hand a bit lower and brushes his thumb against what Jon assumes must be his scars. He’d spent enough time staring at them in the mirror following his surgery that even now he can recall in detail every spot that was stretched due to overactivity during his recovery period and the small area at the bottom of his right scar that had become hypertrophic. They’re probably the only scars on his body that he’s actually fond of.

“You know, I probably wouldn’t have noticed them even if you had taken off your shirt before,” Martin remarks, drawing Jon back into the moment. He’s suddenly very aware of how intimate this exchange is and his heart flutters pleasantly. “You’ve got enough hair on your chest that it kind of hides it as well.”

Jon hums. “Have you ever… thought about it?” he asks cautiously, unsure whether Martin is okay with discussing this. “Getting surgery?”

“Well, I’m definitely too big for peri, but yeah, I have,” Martin says, now running his hand down Jon’s side to rest above his hip. “I started saving up for it after my mum… well, Peter paid me significantly better than Elias had, so I’ve got a bit saved now. Might end up putting that money toward other things now that neither of us has a job, though.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Martin says, and Jon purses his lips. “Really, I’ve already waited this long, I’m alright to hold off a couple of years longer. My dysphoria about my chest has never been all that bad anyway. I’d take this over the world ending any day.”

“I had been saving up for a hysterectomy, we can dip into those savings as well,” Jon says, and he feels Martin lower his hand to rest on his hip. “Suppose we wouldn’t really be in this situation if I’d gotten around to it.”

“Well, just try to think of it as another sign that the blinding worked, I guess,” Martin suggests. “You’re no longer bound to the Eye, you don’t depend on it anymore. As unpleasant as this is, at least it’s a reminder that you’re _human_.”

Jon leans forward, collapsing against Martin’s chest. He tucks his head into the crook of his neck and exhales slowly. It is a reassuring thought and does some good to soothe the churning turmoil of emotions heavy in his chest. At least, it does until he’s hit with another wave of intense cramps and he groans, clutching at Martin’s shirt as he curls in on himself from the pain.

“Yeah, still wish I’d gotten that hysterectomy,” he manages to get out, breathing in through his nose in short breaths. He feels Martin’s hand resume its massaging and the pain recedes slightly.

“I’m sorry, love,” Martin says quietly. “Do you need more paracetamol?”

“As much as I’d like that, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t want me going over the maximum dosage,” Jon points out through gritted teeth.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Martin replies, sighing. “I could order a hot water bottle for next time?”

“I’m hoping there won’t _be_ a next time,” Jon says, unwinding slightly as his cramps lessen to a dull ache. “I’ll call my endo and ask for a refill to be sent to Fort William tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Martin says, and Jon feels him lean down and press a kiss against his forehead. “I can pick it up when I go get my refill if you’d like? Unless you’d like to come along.”

“I think I’ll join you,” Jon says, leaning back against him. “We can make a proper trip of it, get some groceries from an actual Tesco instead of SPAR for once.”

Martin chuckles, and Jon can feel the vibrations deep in his chest. “Alright then, as long as you’re up to it,” he replies, and Jon nods against his chest. Martin wraps his arms around him and he relaxes into the embrace. For a moment, the cramps fade into the background.

As it turns out, getting his hormones sorted out is one of the easier problems Jon has had to deal with in his life. A call to his endocrinologist, a new baseline blood test and examination, and a couple days’ wait later, and Jon has his filled prescription in hand as he and Martin take the bus home from Fort William. 

Having explained his vision loss, he had been prescribed prefilled syringes, allowing him to continue injecting independently. He’d been advised to do so under supervision until he adjusted to it, but having injected normally for seven years, he feels fairly confident that he’ll get the hang of it quickly enough. 

Martin is the one to suggest that he and Jon do their shots together, and once the idea is posed Jon feels ridiculous for not having thought of it sooner. Syncing their doses will make keeping track of prescriptions and injection dates far easier, and if he needs any assistance, he’ll have someone on hand that is already intimately familiar with the process. 

They settle down on the couch, Martin having spread out their supplies in front of them. Martin takes care of noting their injection information, while Jon begins prepping his injection site. Most of the typical injection process is taken up by sanitizing the vial, drawing up your dose, and switching to a thinner injection needle. With a prefilled syringe, however, all Jon has to do is run an alcohol swab over his thigh and inject. 

He still waits for Martin to draw up his dose, however. He knows it’s not necessary, but part of him feels comforted by the shared experience. 

“Ready?” Martin asks, and Jon nods, uncapping his syringe. He pinches a bit of the skin on his thigh and hesitates. 

“This is always the worst part,” he says, and Martin hums in agreement.

“On the count of three?” he asks, and Jon hums.

“One, two, _three_.”

Jon pushes the needle down with more force than necessary, overestimating the length of the needle. He exclaims quietly from the pain.

“You alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, just pressed down a bit too hard,” he reassures him. 

Jon pushes down on the plunger slowly, hesitating when he thinks he’s completed the dose.

“Is it all in?” he asks, and he hears Martin shift to check.

“You’re all good,” he confirms, and Jon pulls out the syringe, sighing with relief. “Do you want me to take care of the plaster?”

Jon snorts. “I struggled with finding the injection site again sometimes even _before_ I couldn’t see, so go for it,” he says. “Pass me the sharps bin?”

Jon finds that the euphoria he feels after the shot extends beyond being back on hormones. The specific joy of being able to take care of himself with minimal assistance carries him through the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Menstruation, gender dysphoria, coming out/unintentional outing, discussion of surgery, description of injections/needles.
> 
> And here we are folks, the most self-indulgent chapter I've written for this entire fic!! I'm a trans man myself, so parts of this are drawn from my own experiences and things like the speed at which Jon gets back on T have been fact-checked with my actual endocrinologist.
> 
> While Jon and Martin in this fic both have a desire to medically transition (it's not addressed here but Martin doesn't really care about getting a hysterectomy), not all trans men do and that is _100% okay_.
> 
> [Here's a lil sketch I did based on the scene of them lying in bed.](https://reidspng.tumblr.com/post/623420727103717376/yearning-hours-yall-you-know-what-that-means) :)
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	13. Holiday Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin celebrate the holidays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the warnings in the endnotes!

“Christmas is in like a week, isn’t it?” Jon realizes one evening, unprompted. 

They’re sitting on the couch, Jon resting in Martin’s lap as he reads. It’s been a couple of days since Jon had received his prescription, and the days since had passed without circumstance. He’s not quite sure what thought led to him realizing just how close the holiday was, but he has to take a second to process just how much time has passed since they’d arrived here.

“Oh, erm, yeah, I guess it is,” Martin replies, nonplussed. “Do you normally celebrate…?”

“I mean, not really?” Jon says. “I used to with my gran back when I was living with her and Georgie and I got each other gifts back in uni but it was always quite… secular, and we never did much else to celebrate. I haven’t really, erm, had anyone to celebrate _with_.”

He hears Martin set down the book he’d been reading.

“Neither have I,” Martin says. “My mum was pretty religious but I never really fell in with it.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Do you _want_ to celebrate?” Martin asks.

“I— I mean no, not exactly,” Jon says quickly. “Nothing over the top, at least. I suppose the gift part would be nice, though, maybe cook something a bit nicer than we usually do? Just… treat ourselves?”

Martin huffs out a laugh. “I guess after the year we have we deserve _something_ nice,” he says, and all Jon can do is nod. He does his best to not think about all of the holidays Martin has spent alone. “So… gifts?”

“Nothing fancy,” Jon says. “You don’t need to splurge on me, I mean… being here with you is enough as is.”

Jon feels heat rise to his cheeks. Then he feels Martin’s hand in his hair, running his fingers through the short curls that have begun to grow out. Instinctually he leans into the touch.

“Nothing fancy,” Martin repeats. 

* * *

Jon had forgotten just how difficult gift-giving is until he’s faced with actually figuring out what to get Martin, even without his current limitations.

He doesn’t have many options, as even if he were to traverse out to a point where he could order something online, he’s yet to learn how to use the accessibility settings on his phone. The only store where he might find a gift in the village is the Woollen Mill, which has an assortment of Highlands-inspired souvenirs among other things. He racks his brain on all of Martin’s hobbies and interests, trying to come up with anything he might be able to find at the small shop.

Poetry is an obvious one, though there’s not much he can do on that front. He doubts the store’s inventory will be heavy in poetry anthologies and doesn’t just want to get Martin a new notebook for his own work. After digging a bit deeper, he remembers Martin mentioning that he’d picked up knitting as a hobby years ago and enjoyed it, though he’d never gotten very far with it.

Jon decides on getting Martin some wool and knitting needles, something he can keep busy with for however much longer they spend up here. He recalls from some of their earlier visits that the store also stocked plush highland cows that Martin had swooned over, so he decides he can get one of those as a backup. 

Seeing as they both already know they’ll be getting each other gifts, they decide not to bother with any of the typical covertness of gift buying and just make the trip into town together. Jon appreciates this, as while he thinks he’ll be able to navigate a store on his own, he isn’t so sure he’s able to navigate the thirty-minute walk down the winding, frozen dirt road leading into town on his own just yet. The walk is cold, the temperature easily below zero. Jon is thankful for Martin having bought them some scarves and hats, neither of them having had the foresight to grab their own before leaving London. 

Entering the building, Jon is instantly met with a blast of warm air and the smell of mulled wine.

“I’m going to go sit in the cafe,” Martin says. Jon feels his nerves beginning to rise but pushes them down, taking a deep breath and nodding. He feels Martin’s breath on his cheek followed by the press of lips against the wind-chilled skin. He smiles, flushing.

“I shouldn’t take too long,” he says, releasing Martin’s arm. “I’ll meet you when I’m done.”

“Alright, if you need anything come find me,” Martin says, “Don’t be afraid to ask for help.”

With that, Jon nods and sets off further into the store. After a minute his path is interrupted by an object. He reaches out with his free hand and feels what he deducts is a clothing display. He remembers this area in the store and breathes a small sigh of relief. Then he realizes that he has no way of finding the specific items he needs. He begins to panic a bit, fumbling around with the cardigan on the display.

“Welcome!” a voice says suddenly to his left, making him jump. “D’ye need a hand?”

He collects himself quickly, turning to face the general direction the voice had come from. His first impulse is to brush aside the offer, but Martin’s parting words echo in his head.

“Y-yes, I, erm, I need help finding some gifts for my partner?” he says stiltedly, ending it almost like a question. 

“Oh, of course!” The woman sounds warm, seemingly unphased by his stiffness. “What was it ye were lookin’ for?”

“I was hoping to buy some knitting supplies, whatever it is you’d need for basics?” he says, realizing he doesn’t actually know what’s required for knitting beyond the yarn and needles. “And also a highland cow plushie.”

“Sure thing!” she says enthusiastically. “Would ye like me to lead ye or would ye like to just follow?”

Jon hesitates, pushing back against his immediate impulse to just follow. “I-I think leading would be best,” he says, swallowing nervously.

“Alright, d’ye have a preference for which side?”

“Left is fine, thank you,” he replies, and then he feels a hand guide him to grip onto an arm. He’d guess the woman is probably a bit shorter than himself, probably middle age by the sound of her voice.

“Name’s Annie, what yer’s?” she asks as they begin walking.

“Jon.”

“Well nice te meet ye, Jon,” she says cheerfully. “Are ye an’ yer partner passing just through? Haven’t seen ye about before.”

“Er, not exactly,” Jon says. “We’re visiting from London. We’ve been staying at a cabin outside of town since September.”

“Quite the holiday!”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Annie helps him find what he needs, including an assortment of yarn, a pair of long knitting needles, yarn needles, measuring tape, a crochet hook, stitch markers, and knit counters. They also find a small plushie, one made of nicer, soft fabric that Jon is sure Martin will love, in case the knitting supplies aren’t as much of a hit as he hopes. While assisting him, he and Annie chat casually, and Jon learns that she’s been living in the village her whole life. She tells him stories about the town and the interesting people she’s met passing through, and he finds himself growing more and more grateful he’d accepted her help when she’d offered it. 

Before leaving, he asks her if they have any wine in stock that she’d recommend. While he knows Martin doesn’t usually drink, he figures it’s a special occasion so he might as well (and of course, if Martin doesn’t want any he won’t force him to have any). She glowingly recommends a ruby port that’s on the cheaper side but still has a great flavour profile, and Jon takes her at her word, getting a bottle along with his gifts.

Annie helps him check out, wrapping the gifts for him at his request (it’s not as if they have wrapping paper on hand and even if they did he wasn’t too confident in his ability to wrap gifts even _before_ losing his vision). 

“Would ye like me to walk ye out?” she offers, and he smiles.

“My partner’s waiting for me in the cafe if you could guide me there?”

“Of course, of course.”

Annie leads him a short distance down a couple of steps into a room that smells distinctly and strongly of mulled wine, and he figures they’re in the cafe. Annie stops for a moment, seemingly hesitating

“Would yer partner be the man with the dark hair and big glasses?”

“That’d be him yes,” he replies, suddenly realizing that the identity of his partner may not be well received. He swallows. “C-can you take me over to him?”

“Sure thing,” Annie replies, and there’s no sign in her tone that she’s thinking any differently of him. He breathes a small sigh of relief. They walk forward, and Jon’s cane taps against the legs of what he assumes are tables and chairs. He hears the squeak of a chair being pulled out, the sound filling what he gathers is a relatively small room.

“Jon! Did you find everything okay?” 

Jon smiles at Martin’s voice. “Yes, Annie here helped me out,” he says, releasing her arm. “Thank you again for your assistance, it was a pleasure talking to you.”

“Pleasure was all mine,” she replies warmly. “You boys enjoy the holidays!”

“Thanks, you too!” Martin replies, and Jon can hear the smile in his voice. He feels Martin tap his left shoulder to let him know where he is, and he reaches out with his left arm, grabbing Martin’s arm. He hears Annie’s footsteps walking away in the stillness of the cafe. He figures they’re probably the only ones here.

“You ready to head back?” he asks.

“Yep, all set,” Martin replies, and Jon hears the sound of him pushing in his chair. He begins to walk, but Jon hesitates.

“Before we go… maybe we could get something warm for the road?” Jon asks sheepishly. “Do they have hot chocolate?”

He hears Martin laugh softly. “I think so,” he replies. “Sure, we can get some hot chocolates.” 

Jon smiles softly as Martin walks them over to the counter, holding on to him gently.

* * *

They awaken on Christmas Day past noon, taking their time getting out of bed. Neither of them changes out of their pyjamas, instead deciding to spend the day casually in comfort. Jon makes them eggs and sausage with some occasional help from Martin when requested, and it almost feels like how it had felt when they’d cooked together before his blinding. They eat together and make easy conversation, and for the first time in a long time, Jon feels perfectly content, happy to let all their worries fade to the background for just a day.

After eating, Jon retrieves his gifts from the bedroom as Martin does their dishes and they settle down on the couch to exchange gifts. 

Upon handing Martin his gifts he hears him giggle.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing, the wrapping paper just has little cows all over it,” he says. “I thought we said just one gift?”

“Well, the bigger one is the main gift, the second one is really just a back-up,” Jon says, flushing slightly. Martin makes a small sound of fond amusement and Jon hears him begin to tear through the paper.

He hears Martin take in a small breath. “Oh, Jon, this is lovely,” he says softly.

“I-I remembered you’d mentioned you’d picked it up for a while so I thought it’d be a nice way to pass time,” Jon says. 

He feels Martin’s hand cup his cheek and he allows himself to be guided into a gentle kiss. He pulls away after a moment, cheeks warm and feeling a bit breathless. 

He laughs. “Well, I’m glad you like it.”

Martin laughs quietly as well. “I do, I really do,” he says, and there’s a lovely warmth to his tone that makes Jon’s heart speed up for a moment. “What was the backup?”

“Oh, I probably would have gotten it for you at some point anyway, go ahead,” he says, and he hears the sound of paper tearing followed by a loud gasp. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” he exclaims and Jon chuckles. “Oh I _love_ him, he’s perfect— oh my goodness it’s so _soft_!”

“Thought you might like it.”

“I— _yes_ , thank you so much, honestly, both of these are excellent,” Martin says, and he presses another quick kiss to Jon’s cheek.

There’s a bit of shuffling as he sets his gifts on the coffee table, and then Jon feels a medium-sized box being placed on his lap.

“Alright, so I don’t think you’re going to be able to figure out what this is just from touch and I also haven’t opened it up yet so I’ll just explain,” Martin says, sounding a bit nervous. “I rush ordered this online using the mill’s wifi. It’s a braille board. It’s supposed to help you learn braille, and I got myself a book so I can help teach you.”

For a moment Jon is left speechless. The idea of learning braille is one that Jon had been throwing around for a while but had never verbalized. He figures it’s a necessary step if he’s going to find work in the future, and it’ll help him with navigating public spaces. Try as he might, he struggles to find words to express the overwhelming surge of love and appreciation he feels for Martin at that moment.

“You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to, I just thought it’d be a way for you to gain a little more independ—”

Jon cuts him off by reaching forward, finding his face and pulling him into an impassioned—if not a bit clumsy—kiss. He quickly readjusts and holds him close, trying to convey all of the emotions he can’t put words to with the gesture. After a moment he pulls away breathlessly and, after only a brief moment of hesitation pulls him into a hug, the box in his lap sliding to the side. He can feel Martin’s heart racing in his chest and his noticeably heavier breathing

“Thank you,” Jon says quietly. Martin rests a hand on the small of his back.

“Of course,” he replies, just as quietly.

Neither of them makes any move to pull away.

* * *

The rest of the day passes comfortably, neither of them feeling any pressure to do anything substantial.

As it turns out, Martin had also gotten a back-up gift in the form of a selection of new audiobooks and podcasts, so Jon begins listening to one (Stephen Fry’s _Victorian Secrets)_ while Martin tries out his new knitting supplies. After a couple of hours, they start on dinner, putting on a Christmas roast before starting on the potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and Brussels sprouts. The meal takes a bit more help from Martin than breakfast had, but Jon still finds it much easier than it had when he’d first attempted cooking after arriving back from the hospital. They use recipes from the book Martin had bought months ago, though Jon makes minor adjustments to the seasoning, finding some of the measurements provided to not be particularly interesting or not enough.

The meal they put together ends up being one of the best home-cooked meals he’s had in years. It’s not often that he cooks a large meal like this, especially not on holidays. He can’t remember the last time he’d made something special on Christmas, usually just treating the day like any other. This, along with nearly everything else about it thus far, certainly sets this Christmas apart.

After dinner, they do the dishes together and then settle down on the couch, feeling a bit drowsy from the amount of food they’d just ingested. When Martin gets out an assortment of chocolates he’d bought for them to share, Jon remembers the wine he’d bought.

“Oh, I, erm, bought a bottle of port when I was getting gifts if you’d like some? Since we’re making this a special occasion.”

“Oh!” Martin says, a bit surprised. “Well alright, I-I suppose I could. A glass or two can’t hurt?”

Which is how they end up splayed out the couch, leaning heavily against one another, toeing the line between tipsy and drunk.

Jon is a lightweight by nature, mostly due to his small stature, so it only takes him two glasses to start feeling the alcohol’s effects, and he’s most definitely tipsy by his third. Martin is soberer than he is, he suspects, but it doesn’t make his tongue any less loose.

“What’s something that you’ve never told me,” Martin asks, and Jon hums, leaning almost his full weight against him.

“Hmm… was in a shitty punk band for two years in uni,” he says, and Martin gasps dramatically.

“ _No way_ ,” he exclaims, and Jon laughs.

“It was while I was dating Georgie, I was on guitar and backup vocals,” he says. “She kind of dragged me into it since she was on drums. Ended up leaving after we broke up.”

“Are there any pictures?”

“Probably? I’d have to ask Georgie. There might be some if you search up the band name though, stuff posted to Facebook or Myspace.”

“God… wish I could have seen you live.”

“Trust me, you’re most certainly better off not having seen it,” Jon assures him. “What about you, what’s something you haven’t told me?”

There’s a small peel of tittering laughter from Martin and Jon raises an eyebrow.

“Okay you might get a bit mad about this one but… I don’t have a middle name.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Never chose one when I got my name changed, I just added the K on for the poems because I thought it sounded cooler.”

“I can’t— I _believed_ you, you know? I _really thought_ that you’d chosen _Keats_ as your middle name!”

Martin's laughs at his indignation. “Really should have, looking back. Although then I wouldn’t have gotten to pull this on you.”

Jon huffs, crossing his arms and pouting. Martin’s laughter calms down and he sighs.

“Why did you choose the name ‘Martin?’”

“Why’d _you_ choose the name ‘ _Jonathan?’_ ”

“It was a name that had sounded ‘proper’ and I didn’t really want my name to stand out,” Jon says easily, and Martin goes quiet for a moment. “Go on, I’m curious.”

“Well, I guess in part the same reasons as you?” he says. “At least the part about not wanting it to stand out. It was also one of the names my mum would have wanted to name me so I thought it would be easier for her to accept.”

Jon hums. Even in his intoxicated state, he doesn’t want to push the subject in case Martin doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s quiet for a few moments.

“I started knitting because of her, you know?” Martin says finally. “It was her big hobby and I thought it might be a way to connect with her more, give us something to talk about. Didn’t really do much of anything in the end. I enjoyed it, but I didn’t really have any reason to keep it up once I realized she didn’t care, so I dropped it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I… I’ve accepted it, at this point. My mum… we never really had a great relationship to begin with? But things got particularly tense once I came out. She was able to adjust to pronouns and the new name alright, but she was always really resistant to me doing anything to change my appearance. Once I started T though… that’s when she started refusing my visits.”

He pauses, and Jon hears him take in a shaky breath. He reaches out and finds his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Martin returns the squeeze and makes a small sound of acknowledgement.

“For the longest time I just thought she didn’t accept me, but then Elias— _Jonah_ told me what she sees when she looks at me and it all made sense. I guess I always kind of looked like my dad and she figured that similarity would just become more pronounced if I went on hormones. Somehow learning that it was _that_ felt worse than her just being transphobic.”

“You shouldn’t feel bad about that,” Jon says, and then pauses, trying to figure out how to phrase his thoughts. “I mean, her seeing your father in you is not your fault, and not going on T just to please your mum would have made you miserable. Sacrificing your own comfort for the sake of others isn’t a solution. You did the right thing for you, and if she had a problem with that, then that was on her, not you.”

“I know, I know, it’s just… it’s hard, y’know?” Martin replies. “I spent so many years doing everything I could to make her happy, and it was never enough, and then the _one time_ I did something to make _myself_ happy, it directly made her _unhappy_. That’s some pretty messed up irony right there.”

Jon hums in agreement. They sit in silence for a minute brewing in their own thoughts.

“When Georgie and I broke up, it had been a long time coming, but one of the culminating factors was that I was just… so unsure about my identity,” Jon says after a while. “I’d just come out as trans, and sexuality-wise I had no clue where I stood, and that pressure on top of my thesis and everything else was just too much for me to handle. I just wasn’t equipped to be in a relationship. But rather than just breaking up with her as soon as I realized that, we dragged on for at least a few months after that point. The break-up itself ended up being, ah, pretty messy, and I’ve blamed myself for it ever since.

“Logically I know that we both contributed, we both had our own issues going on and just weren’t right for one another, but there’s still a part of me that can’t help but feel like it was all on me.”

“Yeah, I’ve been there,” Martin replies, sighing. He’s quiet for a moment. “Your sexuality… did you ever…? I know what Melanie said but—”

Jon sighs. “Ah yes, that little morsel of office gossip,” he says, trying and failing to hold back the bitterness in his tone. “I need to remember to talk to Georgie about that. 

“I… don’t really feel the need to label my sexuality anymore, but I suppose I’d be considered asexual? What Melanie said is... mostly true. As a general rule, I ‘don’t,’ but that’s not always the case. I mean, I feel… fairly neutral about sex, but I don’t have a high libido, and on the rare occasions that I am in the mood for sexual activities, I don’t like being touched. I don’t mind _giving_ on occasion, though.”

“Oh,” Martin says, and Jon detects no judgement in his tone.

“I’ve never told anyone that,” he realizes after a moment, pausing. “I usually just say I don’t do sex and leave it at that, just to keep things simple. I just… I don’t want to plant any expectations that I might not be able to deliver on. When I say rare occasions, I mean _rare_ occasions.”

“That’s fine by me,” Martin says, unphased. “I really don’t mind if you don’t want to have sex or if it only happens once in a blue moon. I mean, we’ve been together for over three months, I’d hope it’s pretty clear at this point that I’m not invested in this relationship out of an expectation of sex. I love you, I only ever want to do things that we have a mutual interest in.”

“I love you, too,” Jon says, voice wavering, and he realizes suddenly that there are tears running down his cheeks. He sniffles and wipes the tear away quickly.

“You okay?” Martin asks, sounding concerned.

Jon laughs wetly. “I… yes, I’m alright,” he says. “I think I’ve had a bit too much wine is all.”

“Same here,” Martin replies with a small laugh. “Ready to go to bed?”

“I think so,” Jon affirms. “And Martin?”

“Mhm?”

“Thank you.”

* * *

A couple of days after Christmas they decide to make a trip into the village in order to take care of a few errands. Their groceries need replenishing, and Jon wants to mail off a brief letter to Georgie and Melanie wishing them well (he figures it’s less intrusive than a phone call, and that it will offer less pressure to reply immediately). It’s also been a couple of weeks since they’ve had contact with Basira, as their phone calls had grown more and more irregular due to less and less new information about the Institute. 

They decide to take care of the phone call first, as the phonebooth is on the outskirts of the village, closer to the cabin than the SPAR. Jon steps into the battered old box, inserts his 60p, and punches in Basira’s cell. 

He’s been in a good mood since Christmas, so he’s looking forward to the chance to speak to their friend for the first time in a while. He taps his foot as the phone rings.

He perks up when he hears a click as the line picks up.

“ _About time you called!_ ” Basira’s voice cries the second she picks up. Jon stands there baffled for a second.

“Good to hear from you, too, Basira,” he says, unsure of how to proceed. 

“I’ve been waiting for you to call for a week, I even tried ringing your cell a couple times on the off chance you’d pick up,” she says, sounding frustrated.

“Well my apologies for being at a _safehouse_ with no service,” Jon responds, now somewhat irritated. His growing concern, however, takes precedent. “Did something happen?”

Basira sighs. “I think it’s time for you to come back to London,” she says. “I’ve found Daisy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Alcohol/drunkenness, mentions of homophobia and transphobia, discussion of bad parental relationships, discussion of sex.
> 
> A couple of things I'd just like to add some insight to from this chapter:
> 
> 1) I imagine both Jon and Martin to be agnostic, though raised in Christian households of different denominations (Martin's mum being Catholic and Jon's gran being Methodist). I chose to have them celebrate Christmas as it is commonly celebrated secularly as just a day to give gifts and spend time with loved ones. Their religious beliefs aren't really going to come up again in this fic.
> 
> 2) I know some people don't like Jon to be portrayed as anything other than sex-repulsed, but I have my own headcanons influenced by my own experiences as a sex-neutral asexual person that I wanted to explore here. I think while it's important to acknowledge and accept sex-repulsed asexuals, it's also important to acknowledge that some of us do enjoy sex, even if sometimes under specific circumstances. I will not be writing any sexual content for this series (explicit or otherwise), so please know I'm not including this for the sake of justifying smut. For more information on asexuality and how it relates to libido, you can check out the pages at [wiki.asexuality.org](http://wiki.asexuality.org/).
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	14. Plotting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon, Martin, and Basira reconnect.

When Jon steps off the train in Euston, he feels a sense of unease wash over him. The nine-hour train ride hadn’t exactly been pleasant, but the anxiety he felt in anticipation of arriving back in London paled in comparison to what he feels upon actually arriving.

After their call with Basira, they had bought a ticket back to London for the next day, returning to the cabin and packing their belongings in quiet trepidation. They’d known they’d have to return to London eventually, and while Jonah had made no move against them in the months since Jon had blinded himself, there’s no way of knowing for sure whether that is simply due to the distance between them making it an inconvenient journey. For all they know, he may be patiently waiting for their return in order to spring any means of terrible things upon them. Basira’s call, however, was enough to push them to finally make the journey home.

According to Basira, she had finally cornered Daisy after weeks of tracking her. Despite the state she was in, Daisy hadn’t attacked her, though she’d struggled when Basira had restrained her. Basira had managed to lock her up in one of her safe houses outside of Croydon and had been checking up on her every day since.

Back when they’d been in contact more regularly, Martin and Basira had made brief discussion of taking out the Institute, Jonah in particular, but nothing concrete had been decided. Now, having secured Daisy, Basira had grown tired of waiting, having mostly tied up the only other loose thread occupying her.

Jon clutches Martin's arm firmly, probing ahead of him with his cane as Martin guides them to the Victoria line. They’d agreed that they’d meet at Basira’s flat and then figure out their next move from there. Jon had insisted that they stay at his flat rather than Martin’s, it being closer to Basira’s and further away from the Institute.

Despite having two months of experience navigating public places using his cane, Jon finds Euston to be far more overwhelming than anything else he’s done up until this point. The constant thrum of chatter from the crowd, the sounds of the overhead announcements, the trains pulling in and out of the station—it all melds together into an oppressive cacophony that leaves Jon even more on edge than he’d been upon arrival. This was a massive leap from the comparatively calm streets of Fort William.

“You alright?” Martin leans down to ask, making Jon jump slightly.

“I’ll survive,” he says, wincing as a particularly loud businessman passes by them much closer than he feels comfortable with. “Let’s just get out of here as quickly as possible.”

Though he can’t see the crowds, Jon can tell that the tube is packed as they get onto the next arrival. Martin guides Jon to an open seat, though he himself remains standing. He stands over Jon, holding Jon’s hand with his own to reassure him that he’s still there. 

Despite having worked in Central London for years, Jon rarely found himself caught in rush hour. This was, of course, due to staying at work far later than strictly necessary, often not leaving the Institute until nearly half-past nine. A part of it, though, was that he’d never been fond of crowds, and he finds that he enjoys them even less so now.

Fourteen stops and a transfer onto another equally crowded train later, they find themselves in East Dulwich, and Martin uses Google Maps to navigate them to Basira’s. The walk from the station is about ten minutes, and after months of making the thirty-minute long walks into the village up north, it seems like almost no time at all.

Upon arrival, Martin rings Basira to let them in, and Jon hears a buzz as the door unlocks. They shuffle their way up the narrow staircase and Jon hears a door open ahead of them.

“Get in,” Basira’s familiar voice says.

“Nice to see you, too,” Martin mutters under his breath, and the corner of Jon’s mouth quirks up in a poorly concealed smile.

After kicking off their shoes and setting down their bags, Martin guides him across a hardwood floor until his feet meet carpeting. His cane hits against something a bit softer, and he feels Martin sit down. He pieces together that the object is a couch, and, releasing Martin’s arm, feels for the back before lowering himself to sit down as well.

“Nice haircut,” Basira comments. “I’ve never seen it this short before.” 

“Yes, well, I decided the maintenance wasn’t worth the aesthetic,” he replies, and Basira snorts.

“Right,” she says. “Well, glad to see you both are doing well, but we need leads. How do we take down the Institute?”

“Gonna get right into it, are we?” Martin pipes up. “Can’t put on some tea, get out a tin of biscuits?”

“Don’t have any biscuits, but if you want to brew something then feel free,” she says. “We still need to talk about this _now_. We’ve already been putting this off for way longer than we should have.”

“Yes, alright…”

“Well, what do we know?”

“The Panopticon is somewhere under Millbank, though the only way to access it is the tunnels,” Jon says. “While the only entrance we're aware of is the trapdoor in my old office, we know there are others, we’d just need to find them.”

“Yeah, probably wouldn’t be the best idea to break into the Institute itself,” Basira agrees, and Jon hears her sit down.

“Well, Jonah will probably know our every move as soon as we act upon it, so I don’t think it will matter all that much where we enter,” Martin points out.

“We could use some kind of distraction, like how you and Melanie did to get the tape from his office.”

Jon feels Martin tense next to him, and he reaches out and carefully takes his hand in his. Martin squeezes it gently.

“A distraction might work, but it’d need to be something big,” Jon replies. “I should be the one to do it. I’ll probably be the one he’s most focused on anyways.”

“Absolutely not,” Martin says firmly. “No way in hell am I leaving you on your own with _him_. I can be the distraction, I’ve done it before.”

“He’d use you to get to me,” Jon points out. “He knows how much I care about you and he’d hurt you to get at me and I cannot allow that.”

“But—”

“Neither of you are going to be the distraction,” Basira cuts in. “Christ, how is your bickering somehow _worse_ now that you’re actually together?”

Jon flushes but otherwise keeps his expression schooled. He hears Martin splutter next to him. He can imagine the exhausted but somewhat amused expression on Basira’s face clear as day.

“Alright, w-well, for now, we should just focus on figuring out how we’re even going to get to the Panopticon in the first place,” Martin says. “We should have a plan for dealing with Jonah, but it might come down to just taking advantage of any opportunity that presents itself.”

There’s a brief pause.

“What if… we went for the same distraction as last time, just on a larger scale?” Basira says slowly.

Martin replies after a moment of silence to process what she’s proposing. “What, you mean _burn down the Archives_?”

And that’s what it takes for it to click in Jon’s head.

“ _The tapes_.”

“Tapes?” Martin says, voice going high from anxiety and confusion. “What do you mean ‘the tapes?’”

“The ones that were with the statements Basira sent, all of them had to do with burning,” Jon says faintly. “The birthday one I complained about a source of ignition in the Archives, in the one with Gertrude and Leitner she’s preparing to burn it all down, Gerry burning that Leitner, Tim saying they’d burn the place to the ground— oh god, the _lighter_.”

“The lighter—?”

“The lighter with the web design on it, the one Breekon and Hope delivered with the table,” he says, rifling around in his coat pocket and retrieving it. He’d never stopped carrying it simply out of habit. “This is the Web’s doing. They want us to burn down the Archives.”

“Is it a good idea to listen to them?” Basira says, sounding cautious. “I mean, it’s not a bad plan but if it’s playing into the Web’s hands then maybe we shouldn’t do it.”

“Peter had said that the Web likes things as they are,” Martin says. “It’s never attempted a ritual. I don’t think it wants to end the world or anything, I think it just doesn’t want the Eye to win. It might just be showing us how to stop it.”

Basira hums. “Guess we could keep that as a plan B at the very least,” she says. “If we can’t think of anything else, we’ll go with that. I think the best thing we can do is keep our options open. Depending on a concrete plan could backfire on us with Elias’s whole ‘knowing’ thing.”

“I really don’t think it’s a good idea to rush in without a plan—”

“Some of the best-laid plans are ones made on the fly.”

“Oh yeah, like running off to Ny-Ålesund to stop a supposed ritual with next to no information?”

“Can both of you _please_ be quiet,” Jon says, cutting their argument short. “We need to do more research before we can make any sort of plan. We should have the basic groundwork of a plan, but we shouldn’t become _too_ comfortable with anything as it is very likely we’ll have to make a lot of adjustments as we go along.”

“Fine,” Basira says shortly. “I’ll start looking into possible entrances that are closer to the prison itself, you do the same. Keep brainstorming other distractions in case.”

“How long should we wait before we just go with plan B?” Martin asks. “I feel like we should have some sort of deadline.”

“January 10th,” Basira says after a moment of consideration. “We shouldn’t push this back any further, the longer we wait the more time we give that creep to find a new Archivist.”

“That’s hardly any time,” Martin protests. “We’re trying to take down our partially omniscient ex-boss with absolutely no powers, how are we supposed to figure out how to do that in _two weeks_?”

“Better put those researching skills to use then,” Basira retorts, and Martin goes quiet.

Not for the first time, Jon can’t help but feel like they’re in way over their heads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope yall enjoyed!! We're getting to the climax now :))
> 
> There should be around 6-7 chapters left in this (I have the full fic planned out, just not fully written so I may tweak the chapter count a little bit). Also, I've updated the rating and tags as based on what I've written up to, the violence isn't going to be described very graphically. I'll still add violence warnings on relevant chapters, so don't worry about that!
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	15. Waiting Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon, Martin, and Basira make preparations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always please check the endnotes for warnings!

They settle into Jon’s flat quickly enough, and Jon is able to adjust to the new but familiar surroundings faster than he'd anticipated. Between being in a coma and staying at the Institute most nights, he hadn’t really been at his flat much since moving in last year, but he knows the layout well enough to navigate it with little trouble.

The first night they get some Indian takeout on their way back from Basira’s and then pass out before ten. The long train ride and intense planning session had left both of them absolutely drained, and Jon is thankful his flat is as close to Basira’s as it is. He doesn’t think he would have been able to make it all the way back to Stockwell if they’d decided to stay at Martin’s.

The next morning Martin gets up early to go grocery shopping, and then dives into researching while Jon makes them some sandwiches. He feels a bit useless, not really being able to contribute much in the way of researching. He still hasn’t delved into the accessibility settings on his phone or laptop, so he has no way of looking up information, and he can’t exactly go scout out any suspected entrances on his own.

In the meantime, he calls the hospital in Scotland in order to arrange transfer of his care to one in London, seeing as he was still having biweekly check-ups before their hurried departure. It’s at least one thing, in the midst of all that they’re grappling with, that feels almost normal.

He does his best to think of alternative forms of distraction, but his thoughts are consumed by creeping flames and plumes of dark smoke. 

He feels a bit daft for not having put the pieces together sooner, but now that he has, he can’t stop thinking about them. He’s pulled out the tapes and listened to them over and over, hoping this new revelation might illuminate some other aspect of the tapes that he’d overlooked before, but he finds nothing. 

He spends the next couple days like this, pouring over the same four tapes trying to glean any new information from them despite knowing deep down that he’s already uncovered the one significant secret they held. He just needs to feel like he’s doing something, and this at least keeps him busy, as mind-numbing as it becomes after the first ten listens.

* * *

New Year’s passes with little fanfare. Jon and Martin stay home and watch the countdown nestled in a cocoon of blankets on the couch. Jon listens to the broadcast absently, more focused on Martin’s finger curling around a short lock of his hair. He almost doesn’t notice when the countdown begins, but they quietly count down the last few digits together and, after a subdued “Happy New Year,” share a small kiss. 

Jon has never been impressed by the idea of the New Year’s by its nature bringing about significant change. It’s always been his belief that if someone wishes to change something in their life, they must choose to make that change, and their chances of success in this regard are no way improved by doing this at New Year. Despite this, he finds that sliver of idealism in the back of his mind feeding the hope that, now, free of the Institute and with Martin at his side, this year will finally be different.

* * *

A few days later, Martin asks him to come along to scout out some possible entrances he’d discovered. Jon knows he only offers because he can tell Jon is feeling a bit stir crazy, that he can’t contribute much of anything in the way of achieving their goal, but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless. At the very least, it gives him an opportunity to learn how to navigate the streets of London.

The first two locations they visit end up being to little avail, the entrances either being blocked off or hidden within a shop or private residence. While neither of them are above breaking and entering, they’d rather not add any unnecessary risk to the equation.

The third possible entrance turns out to be in the basement of an abandoned apartment complex. While still technically breaking and entering, they figure they’d be at less risk of being caught seeing as there’s no landlord on the premises. The building is a bit further from where Millbank Prison used to stand than the other locations, but it’s still considerably closer than the Institute. They don’t investigate any further than discovering a basement window that they’ll be able to squeeze through, not wanting to draw any attention in the daytime. The entire trip, Jon finds himself losing track of his thoughts, and Martin repeatedly has to snap him out of it. He brushes it off as a result of stress and maybe not getting enough sleep.

Martin reports back to Basira about what they’ve learned and they return to planning distractions. They figure visiting the entrance too often in order to explore the tunnels could alert Jonah to their plans, even if he can’t see them in the tunnels, so they resolve to avoid visiting any more than absolutely necessary. 

Once that part of the plan has been resolved there’s little else to do until they’ve decided on a distraction. None of them have come up with anything that would work on a scale as large as they need. The possibility of finding another avatar to lead an attack on the Institute had come up, but it had been shot down quickly enough. One of them confronting Jonah directly seems to be a terrible idea in all regards. The only other way they know to get at him is to damage the Archives in some capacity, and seeing as that just leads them back to burning it down, they’re stuck at a standstill.

The days draw closer and closer to January 10th, and all any of them can do is sit and wait for it to arrive, a growing sense of dread hanging over the trio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Internalized ableism and a brief mention of medical treatment.
> 
> Episode break is over with new Jon, Martin, Basira content and hey, look at that, some more Jon, Martin, and Basira content here!
> 
> Hope yall are doing okay after that episode, it was rough for me and I know it was the same for a lot of other folks. Make sure to take care of yourselves!
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	16. In Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An opportunity presents itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check endnotes for warnings!

On January 8th, Jon is awoken from a nap by the sound of Martin’s phone ringing. He groans softly, mind still clouded by sleep, and he feels Martin place down a book and move to grab it from the nightstand.

“Hey.”

There’s silence from Martin, and Jon can hear a voice—he assumes Basira—talking quickly on the other end. Martin sits up suddenly, swearing under his breath before stumbling out of bed.

“Alright, shit, shit, we’ll be there as soon as we can,” Martin says, and Jon hears him hang up.

“Wha’s going on?” he asks, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

He can hear Martin bustling around the room, including the tell-tale sounds of him wrestling on a binder.

“Basira went to check up on Daisy and she’s gone,” Martin says quickly, and Jon suddenly feels far more awake than moments before. “She said she’s followed her trail North, she thinks she’s going for Jonah.”

Jon takes a second to process, feeling his heart sink. “Let me guess: this is our opening?”

“She wants us to head to the entrance we found,” Martin replies, sounding frustrated. There’s an edge of panic to his voice that sets Jon’s own nerves off, and he quickly slips out of bed, grabbing his cane and fumbling to find his socks. “Maybe you should stay behind—”

“Martin,” Jon cuts him off warningly. He refuses to sit at home while this all plays out, and Martin knows this.

Martin sighs. “Worth a shot,” he says, stress evident in his tone. “It’s nearly 4, I really hope the tube isn’t too crowded yet.”

“Should we bring anything?” Jon asks, starting to wrestle a pair of socks onto his feet as quickly as possible. 

Martin huffs. “A torch, I guess?” he says, and Jon hears the sound of shoes on the hardwood floor. “That’ll just be for me, though. Do we have a knife?”

“I’ve got my pocket knife,” Jon confirms as he slips on his broken-down trainers. “It’s in my coat. The lighter should be with it, just in case.”

“Wait, why do _you_ own a _pocket knife_? Why has this not come up before?”

“I dunno, I got it back in uni, I used to walk home alone late at night a lot before— look we can discuss this _later_.”

“Right, right, let’s— let’s get out of here,” Martin says, but as Jon moves to retrieve his cane he hears a quiet whirring sound in the relative silence. He’s sure if he wasn’t so reliant on his hearing now he never would have noticed it.

“Martin, where’s the tape recorder,” he asks slowly, fighting down his growing distress.

“W-what? We’re not bringing the bloody—”

“No, I know, just— _listen_.”

Martin stills, and the whirring becomes even more pronounced in the otherwise silent room. It’s been months since the recorder has turned on of its own volition, and it just serves to worsen the dread settling in Jon’s stomach.

Martin sighs. “Shit.”

Martin crosses the room, tossing aside some things until suddenly the sound becomes more pronounced. Jon hears the sound of plastic being jostled as Martin picks it up. For a moment, neither of them do anything, and then Jon nearly jumps out of his skin as a loud crash fills the room.

“ _Christ_ , Martin!” he exclaims, heart hammering in his chest. He jumps again as he hears Martin stamping on the ground, accompanied by the sounds of cracking plastic. Then the room is quiet other than the sound of their breathing.

“Well that can’t mean anything good,” Martin says, tone betraying no emotion. Jon clenches his jaw. “Come on, we’d better get going.”

* * *

The Tube isn’t nearly as packed as it is at peak hours, though there are certainly more people on it than Jon is entirely comfortable with. He spends the entire ride to Victoria Station fidgeting nervously in his seat, head swimming with an uncomfortably familiar mix of fear and uncertainty. Despite their insistence on planning ahead, this feels no different from any of their other plans, and now more than ever he’s terrified of losing someone. He refuses to let this be like it was with the Not-Them, or the Unknowing, or the coffin, or any of the other half-baked plans he’s thrown himself into these past few years. It’s that determination alone that allows him to maintain some semblance of composure throughout the tube ride.

Martin leads him through the station at a brisk pace, going as fast as Jon is capable. They bump into multiple passersby, but for once Martin doesn’t utter a single apology. He ploughs ahead in silence, and Jon absently wishes he could see his expression to gauge how his boyfriend is feeling.

They make their way through the streets of Pimlico, and Jon does his best to block out the bustle of the city around them. He stumbles once or twice on uneven areas of the pavement, but he manages to keep himself steady. 

Martin gently pulls him on a sharp left, and the sounds of the city grow more distant as they continue along their path. Then they come to a sudden halt.

“We’re here.” 

Martin’s tone is firm and measured, and Jon can’t help but think how different he sounds from the recording of his encounter with Elias a year and a half ago. There are no clear signs of anxiety in his voice, though that doesn’t stop him from feeling the tremor in his arm where he holds him.

Jon feels Martin tap his hand and he releases his arm, standing back as Martin shuffles around the alleyway. He listens apprehensively, keeping an ear out for any sign of movement not made by Martin. 

There’s a grunt followed by the sound of pressure releasing as a window opens. 

“Okay, this is going to be a tight fit for me but I’ll go first so I can help you down,” Martin says and Jon nods, gripping his cane tightly.

He listens as Martin gets to ground and lowers himself through the window. He hears him grunt and then yelp, followed by a distinctly more distant thud.

Jon’s heart is thundering. “Are you okay?” he says, feeling around and squatting down next to the window.

“Fine! Fine, just a bit more of a drop than I expected. Hand me down your cane?”

Jon passes it down through the window, feeling Martin grab the other end and take from his hands. He leans his hand against the wall and clenches his jaw.

“Okay, face backwards so you can grab the windowsill and lower your legs down, I’ll give you a foothold.”

Jon follows his instructions, getting down on his stomach and sticking his legs through the window. Once he gets in up to his waist he feels around until he feels Martin’s hands under his feet.

Martin helps lower him carefully to the basement floor, and Jon sighs a breath of relief as he finds his footing. Martin hands him his cane back before shutting the window behind them. Jon hears him walk to the other side of the room, footsteps echoing in what he can only assume is a spacious basement storage space.

“What now?” Jon asks.

“There’s a padlock on the trapdoor, give me a second,” Martin replies, followed by a quiet jangling sound.

Jon follows the sound over to his side, bouncing his leg in anticipation. He knows the trip from Peckham to Pimlico alone takes about forty minutes, so he can only hope that they’ve not already missed their window. The tape recorder could mean they’re already too late.

There’s a sudden clattering of metal on concrete followed by the squeal of rusty hinges. Jon hears Martin click on his torch.

“Right, it’s a pretty steep descent but it’s only about… twenty steps?” Martin says, and for the first time, his voice betrays some nerves. “It’s just… a _really_ steep staircase, like with the one in the Archives. Would you rather go first or let me go so I can spot you?.”

“Wait did you— did you just pick the lock?”

“Yes? I could see the padlock from the window last time we were here and figured it’d be more discreet than just smashing it so I found a video on how to do it on Youtube.”

“Alright,” Jon says, curiosity sated and wanting nothing more than to get moving. “You take the lead, I’ll follow right behind you.”

Martin makes a small affirmative noise before Jon hears the sound of footsteps descending the stone passage. Upon reaching the bottom, Jon finds Martin’s arm and latches onto it, biting his lip.

“Anything look familiar?” he asks. 

“I mean, _kind of?_ I can’t remember anything specific about the layout, though, and I doubt this would have been along the path we took.”

“Are there any branching passages?”

“No. Not right now, it’s just one long cobblestone path leading off in the same direction the stairs face.”

“Well then, I suppose we should just… keep going until something changes.”

They set off down the tunnel, their footsteps echoing around them in the enclosed space. When he’d lead them out of this place back in September, Jon had hoped it’d be the last time they set foot here. In an ideal world, they’d never have set foot in it in the first place, Jon thinks. This place has only ever brought them pain, entangling them further in the mess of otherworldly beings and horror and death that’s been their lives for the last three years. 

They stop suddenly and Jon waits nervously for Martin to speak.

“There’s a split,” he says, sounding troubled. Jon’s grip on his arm tightens. “I think… I think we should take a left.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“I dunno, it just… feels right.”

Jon feels dread curling in his stomach. “I don’t know whether or not that’s a good thing.”

“No, probably not.”

Regardless, Martin starts off again, guiding Jon to their left. Jon takes in a deep breath, steeling himself.

They continue onwards for what feels like a neverending stretch of time, the silence filled by only the sound of their footsteps and the tapping of Jon’s cane. Occasionally Jon feels the ground beneath their feet change material, alternating between smooth stone to dirt to cobblestone. Every now and then Martin will take another turn, and each time Jon’s feeling of unease will grow stronger.

As they walk on, Jon begins to space out. At first, he brushes it off, doing his best to stay present and dismissing it as a result of stress and residual grogginess from being woken from his nap, but then he begins to find it difficult to hold on to his lines of thought. Everything feels muddled, and the fear he feels at this realization sits heavy in his throat.

“Martin, I—”

“There’s light ahead, I can see— yes!” Martin says suddenly in a hushed voice, cutting him off. “I think we’re here.”

Jon hardly has time to process this information before Martin is pulling him forward. He tries to speak up, to voice his concern from before, but he can no longer remember what that concern was. He has to speed up considerably in order to keep up with their increased pace, his shorter legs doing him no favours. A few steps later, the cobblestone underfoot gives way to concrete, and suddenly Jon has no idea where he is.

He feels like all the oxygen has been sucked from his lungs and a small whimper escapes him against his will.

“Jon?” a voice asks. It’s so achingly familiar and comforting that for a moment, the fear recedes, but then the fact that he can’t remember who the voice belongs sends him right back into a downward spiral.

“Who are you, w-where are we?” he says, and despite how quietly the words are spoken, they echo around him, ringing out like a gunshot. “ _Why can’t I see anything_.”

“ _Shit_.”

Jon feels someone grab hold of his arms. He struggles against them, but whoever it is is significantly stronger than him.

“Jon, _Jon,_ it’s _me_ , it’s _Martin_.”

Jon stills, trembling slightly. “Martin?” he says. He knows that name, and something obscured at the back of his mind is urging him to trust this person, but he doesn’t know if he should. Is the impulse a trick? It’s already hard enough to think without the fear settled deep in his chest weighing him down.

“Jon just, just stay with me okay?” the voice—Martin, was it?—says, sounding just as panicked as Jon feels. “ _Damn it_ , we never should have come back here!”

Then Jon hears sharp, echoing footsteps ring out from behind them and he freezes. The voice that comes next is also familiar, but rather than bringing him comfort, it cuts through him and lets the fear bleed out fresh and heavy and too much to bear.

“Oh, but I’m _so_ glad that you finally decided to join me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Memory loss, panic attacks, disorientation.
> 
> Hiiiiiii,,,,,
> 
> Hope yall enjoyed, I've been looking forward to this chapter for a while. Next one's gonna be a doozy. :)
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	17. Prey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE check warnings for this chapter in the endnotes. Enjoy!

Martin stares down the man in front of him with all the anger and contempt he’s built up over the past three years bubbling just beneath the surface. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears as he watches him inspect them from the entrance to the tunnels. Now more than ever, he wishes that a look could kill. He pulls Jon close to his chest, taking a preemptive step back.

“ _Elias_ ,” he says, his tone purely venomous.

Elias chuckles, taking a step forward. Martin takes another step back, Jon following his lead without putting up any fight.

“Really now Martin, after all this time?” he says with a smile that feels particularly insidious. “I’d have thought your particular circumstances would have made adjusting to my true name far easier.”

“Jonah,” Jon says against his chest. He sounds distant, which terrifies Martin, but he thinks there’s a flicker of recognition in Jon’s tone, something there that might just mean that he’s fighting against the Eye. Martin looks down at him uncertainly and squeezes him gently.

“Ah, what a pity,” Jonah says, and Martin’s eyes snap back up to meet his. “Such great potential and he had to put it all to waste with that little stunt he pulled. I’m sure I can find _some_ other use for him, even if he’s useless to the Watcher now.”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Martin snaps, rage boiling in his chest. “What have you done to him?”

“Me? This is hardly _my_ doing. He’s the one who willfully chose to reenter the Eye’s domain after cutting himself off from it. You can’t _really_ have expected there to be no consequences for that?”

Martin remains silent, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of admitting the thought had never really crossed his mind. Jonah may be able to Know it, sure, but admitting to his oversight is a level Martin isn’t willing to stoop to.

“Well, I am rather glad you had the decency to return to this place of your own volition,” Elias says, walking so that he stands between them and the walkway leading to the panopticon. “I was starting to think I might have to send someone to retrieve you after all.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Martin grits his teeth. It’d been months since he’d last had to put up with Jonah’s condescension, and he’d almost forgotten how infuriating it is. Almost. “If I had wanted to keep you out I would have. That Leitner that Peter left behind has been _very_ useful in keeping out those officers you sent after my body. No, I wanted you to return. In all honesty, I expected it to happen far sooner. You three never put much care into your plans, so I quite honestly expected you to come crawling back to the Archives as soon as you read my letter. I even did you the courtesy of making the tunnels easy to navigate.”

“Why.”

It’s not a question, but a demand. Martin is beyond tired of being toyed with, of being used as a means to end without any proper explanation of what his role really is. He wants answers, and _now_.

“Your _boyfriend_ here squandered years of work that I put into what should have been the perfect Watcher’s Crown,” he says matter-of-factly. Infuriatingly, he doesn’t appear to be all that upset about it, expression cold and unyielding. His eyes bore into Martin and he shudders “I rather think I’m due some form of compensation for those losses.”

Martin scoffs. “The rituals are all doomed to fail, you _know_ that,” he says. “Isn’t this just more proof?”

“Perhaps. Though because of what _Jon_ pulled, I guess we’ll never know. Or, at least, not for another couple hundred years.”

“So what, you’re just revenging yourself? Going to kill us both?”

There’s ferocity behind his words that only just hides the rising terror brought on by their situation. They’re trapped here with a man who can know everything and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty when needed. There’s every chance Jonah can see through his facade but at this point, he can’t bring himself to care.

“Kill you? For the time you’ve lost me that wouldn’t even come _close_ to what you’ve earned. No, I have _plenty_ of things in mind to do with you.”

Martin slips his hand into Jon’s pocket, grabbing hold of the knife concealed there. Jon makes a small noise of acknowledgement, murmuring something under his breath.

“What’ll it be then?” he asks, hoping his motions have gone unnoticed. He knows it probably won’t do much, but he’d rather have a weak weapon than no weapon at all.

“I _could_ keep Jon here, never able to collect his thoughts into anything even markedly coherent. It’d certainly feed the Eye more than anything else he’s capable of at the moment, but over time I think it would weaken his mind so much that he’d become numb to it, and that would just ruin the fun, wouldn’t it? No, I think the best way for me to draw out his suffering is by focusing my plans upon someone that he’d give his life for in a heartbeat.”

Martin sets his jaw and feels Jon clutch at his jumper. He makes out the word “no,” repeated over and over in hushed tones, but still forceful.

“My ritual may have failed but that’s simply an unpleasant delay in my plans,” Elias continues, pacing back and forth and Martin watches him closely. “As far as disruptions go, this one had minimal collateral damage. I lost my Archivist, sure, but it’s not as if I’ve never lost one before. He wasn’t particularly special, simply marked by the Web when he landed at my doorstep. Now that he’s removed himself from the equation, I just need to do what I’ve always done: find a replacement. Which brings it all back to _you_.”

Martin watches him blankly. “You want _me_ to be the next Archivist?”

“Who better? You’ve proven that you’re capable of surviving encounters with the Dread Fears, and you’re already marked by the Lonely, the Corruption, and the Spiral, so those orchestrations of mine won’t have gone entirely to waste. And of course, seeing as it may now have adequate time to emerge, I’ll need someone familiar with the Extinction in my sphere of influence in order to deal with it properly. It all fits together perfectly.”

“If you think that I would ever help you—”

“Please, Martin, I’m not so naive as to think that you’d help me willingly, no,” Jonah cuts him off, rolling his eyes. Martin’s grip on the pocket knife tightens. “I am curious, though, exactly where else do you have to go? You can’t survive on your little savings funds forever, and when it comes down to it, I happen to have influence over quite a few business heads around the world. I think you’ll find that your employment opportunities will be incredibly limited. And even if you do decide to leave anyway, live off-the-grid or what have you, I have my ways of making it impossible for you to ever settle into one place for long.”

Martin swallows, doing his best to conceal the tremor in his hands. His mind is racing, searching for an alternative that he’s somehow missed, some way to get out of this that won’t end with them living under Jonah’s watchful gaze one way or another, and he’s coming up blank. He knows returning to the Institute at all, let alone as the new Archivist, would be nothing but miserable, but at the same time the slow game of burning through their savings unable to find a new source of income or a place to call home somehow terrifies him more. Perhaps in this case, better the devil you know.

“ **No**.”

Martin is torn from his thoughts by the loud exclamation made against his chest and looks down at Jon. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his grip on Martin’s jumper vice-like. For the first time since they’d set foot in the prison, he seems present, though Martin can tell it’s taking him an exorbitant amount of effort.

“Ah, decided to join us, Jon?” Jonah says in a maddeningly patronizing tone. Martin notices that his jaw is set in a way it wasn’t before though, his shoulders squared off and tense.

“You… can’t… touch us,” Jon manages to get out, turning in Martin’s arms. Martin carefully withdraws the pocket knife into his sleeve as he turns, doing his best to keep it concealed. Jon faces Jonah, leaving one hand grasping Martin’s shirt.

Jonah bites out a laugh. “And what _exactly_ do you think would stop me?” he says, though there’s thinly veiled anger beneath the mirth.

“You’ve failed… twice. Your god… is... unhappy with you. You hold… no power… the Institute… _failed_.”

“I assure you my influence reaches _far_ beyond the Institute’s walls.”

“But how much of that influence relies on Knowledge passed on to you by the Eye?” Martin jumps in. “How much influence do you _really_ have when you can’t lord someone's guilt or trauma over them? You’ve used fear and intimidation to get your way for so long, you have no connections based on actual loyalty.”

Jonah scoffs, the ever-present air of condescension slipping enough to let the genuine anger shine through. “I think you greatly underestimate my powers,” he says slowly. “The Watcher may be displeased by my failings, yes, but that does not mean I have exhausted all of my resources. I still possess enough knowledge to sway those in power if I need to.”

Suddenly a distant, inhuman cry sounds from the tunnels, and Martin breaks his gaze momentarily to stare down the dark passageway. When his eyes return to Jonah, all signs of irritation have been wiped from his face, replaced with an unsettlingly relaxed look of satisfaction.

“Sounds as if your friends will be joining us shortly,” he says placidly. “Now could you at least have the decency to give me your final answer _before_ they arrive? It would make things much cleaner for all parties involved.”

“After everything… we went through… to leave?” Jon asks, his hand trembling against Martin’s chest. “The answer... is _no”_

“We’ll take our chances on a crummy job market, _thanks_ ,” Martin adds, taking hold of Jon’s hand and squeezing it in hopes of calming him.

The echoing snarls echoing down the tunnel are quickly getting louder, now accompanied by the distinct sound of footfalls.

Jonah sighs. “Well, I can’t say I hadn’t expected you to be stubborn,” he says, slipping a hand into his suit before withdrawing it to reveal a handgun. “I rather hoped you’d see reason, though.”

Martin’s grip on Jon’s hand tightens, going stock still. 

Jonah seems to notice his tension and huffs out a laugh. “Oh, I have no intention of using this on _you_ unless you give me a reason to,” he says in a mockery of reassurance. “This is simply a failsafe in case your little hunter tries anything reckless.” 

Suddenly a large form comes charging out of the tunnels, skidding to a halt at the entrance. Logically, Martin knows that the thing is Daisy, but looking at her now he still finds it hard to recognize her. Her form is still mostly human, though her limbs are long and bend unnaturally. Her features are warped, her nose and jaw extended in a way that resembles a muzzle, lips drawn back to reveal sharp, distinctly wolf-like teeth. Every part of her seems to be warped in a way that is almost lupine but is still distinctly human.

“Ms Tonner,” Jonah says, cocking his gun. “I wish I could say I’m surprised to see you here.”

Daisy growls. “ ** _You_** ,” she says, her voice deep and guttural. Martin bristles at how unlike herself she sounds. It certainly doesn’t sound like it’s coming from a human. 

“I expect Ms Hussain will also be joining us shortly, then?” he asks, and hardly a moment later, the sound of heavy footsteps echoes down the tunnel. “Good, might as well have you all here.”

Daisy seems to ignore his comments entirely, suddenly fixing her gaze on Jon. Martin tenses, afraid that moving away will encourage her to attack. She bares down, attention darting back and forth between Jon and Jonah. Behind her, Basira appears in the darkness of the corridor, coming to a stop a couple of metres away from Daisy, who seems to pay her no mind. 

“Oh _great_ ,” she says, catching her breath. “What’s _he_ doing here?

“Really, Detective, I’d have thought _you_ at least would have expected this,” Jonah replies, pointing his gun at Daisy. “Now could you please restrain your partner so this doesn’t get messy?”

“No, y’know, I don’t think I will.”

Jonah sighs. “Currently, the only reason Ms Tonner has not attacked any of us is that she’s deciding whether to attack me or Jon,” he says, drawing out his words as if he’s talking to a child. “I have a gun, while your friend is currently fending off the Eye’s obfuscation and his partner is only armed with a knife. If you’d like to gamble your friend’s life, by all means, don’t intervene, but perhaps you should reconsider.”

Basira looks over and meets Martin’s gaze. For a moment they stare in silence, Martin worrying his lip as he does his best to keep calm. He eyes Daisy, who is still poised indecisively at the centre of the group. He takes a deep breath before looking back to Basira and shaking his head subtly. 

“I’ll take my chances, thanks,” she says, looking back to Jonah.

“Very well,” he replies, lips pursed. He looks back down at Daisy. “I suppose that leaves things in your hands, Ms Tonner. Make your move so we can get this over with.”

The tension in the room is almost palpable. None of them make a move as Daisy stares them both down with teeth bared.

“Daisy… go for his eyes,” Jon says suddenly, causing her head to snap back to him. 

For one, terrifying moment, Martin thinks that she’s going to attack, but then slowly she looks back towards Jonah. And then she takes a step forward.

A gunshot sounds off. Martin gasps as the sound echoes around the space. Daisy recoils as the bullet makes impact but otherwise seems unphased. She snarls, eyes still fixed on Jonah. A look of horror dawns on Jonah’s face and Martin realizes he’s never seen the man genuinely afraid before.

“Well shit,” he says. 

The next few moments seem to pass in a blur. Jonah makes a desperate scramble backwards and fires off another shot as Daisy lunges at him. The bullet doesn’t seem to connect and Daisy continues undeterred. Martin squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to watch the ensuing carnage. There’s a scream, followed by a wet, tearing sound that goes on for a few seconds, and then silence.

Martin tentatively opens his eyes and watches as Basira rushes at Daisy, quickly restraining her. Despite her prior anger, she does little to resist, simply sitting and panting heavily. Elias’s body is splayed across the ground, his face a mess of gore that Martin chooses not to let his gaze linger on for too long. 

“ _Christ_ ,” he manages to get out, standing dumbstruck.

No one speaks for a moment, none of them sure what exactly comes next.

“What now?” Basira asks.

Martin nearly jumps when Jon speaks. “We need… to bring the bodies… to the Institute,” he gets out, voice strained from the effort of speaking. “Burn it all down.”

“But the Web-”

“Doesn’t matter… burning… is the only way… to rid ourselves of this,” Jon says, before grimacing and leaning against Martin. “God, I need… I can’t... stay in this place much longer.”

“Let’s get you back into the tunnels,” Martin says, guiding Jon’s hand to wrap around his arm. “We can talk more once you’re stable.”

Jon nods, and Martin looks over to where Basira has bound Daisy’s hands with rope. “Is Daisy secure enough that you can take care of Jonah—like, actual Jonah?” he asks. 

Basira nods. “She’s calmed down, hardly put up a fight,” she says, rising to her feet. “How should I do it?”

Martin takes the closed pocket knife and tosses it to her, which she catches easily. “Drag him out of the Panopticon and slit his throat,” he instructs. “Destroying his eyes probably killed him but better safe than sorry. And I don’t think it’s worth risking killing him inside it, that might end with you being stuck in there. Not really sure how that all works, to be honest.”

“Got it,” she says before beginning her ascent up the gangway.

Martin exhales heavily, looking back down at Jon. “Let’s go,” he says, and Jon nods faintly. Martin’s heart is still racing, but at least the worst of it is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Minor character death, murder, mauling/mild gore (these aren't described in detail), temporary memory loss, guns, manipulation.
> 
> HEYYYYYYY everyone. Man, big thank you to Jonny and Alex for posting 179 the same week that I was posting this it helped so much.
> 
> Hope yall enjoyed, I've been looking forward to this one for a while but also Elias is so hard to write dialogue for sometimes. Stinky man gets what he deserves.
> 
> I've finally put a final chapter count on this! I knew it'd be around 20-22 chapters since I have everything outlined, but I wasn't sure exactly how many it'd be until now. Next chapter was originally gonna be part of this one but I ended up splitting it up to make things easier for myself and a bit more cohesive.
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	18. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin burns a building and Jon has a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the endnote for warnings!

The walk back to the Institute gives Jon time to collect himself. It helps that Martin decides to remain silent as well. The more distance they put between them and the Panopticon, the more clearly he’s able to think. The only thing breaking the silence is the echo of their footsteps, the tap of Jon’s cane, and the occasional sound of dripping.

Martin had taken up carrying Elias’s body while Basira had split off in order to take care of Daisy. While she’d been restrained and calm when they left, there’s no telling how long that will last, and Basira had wanted to get her contained as quickly as possible.

According to Basira, the path to the Institute was almost a straight shot from the Panopticon, although it’s long. As they walk, the only indication to Jon that they’re making progress is the occasional change in texture underfoot as the tunnel’s design shifts. 

“I think… yeah, I see the trapdoor ahead!” Martin pipes up, and Jon sighs a breath of relief.

After a moment, they come to a stop and Jon hears the dull thump of Martin setting down Elias’s body.

“So what exactly is the plan?” Martin asks. “We’ll have to get everyone out of the building, so probably the fire alarm, which won’t be too suspicious since y’know, there will be _actual fire_ , but what then?”

“Well, first you’ll have to cut off the fire suppression system so the CO2 doesn’t get released. You should start the fire in the Archives with Elias’s body near the source, then we’ll need to get out fast. From that one tape I’m fairly certain that the gas main is under the Archives, so we probably shouldn’t leave through the tunnels.”

“That’ll mean we could be seen, though,” Martin says, a nervous edge to his voice. “And you’d have to go into the Institute, wouldn’t that be just as bad as the Panopticon?”

“Possibly, but that’s better than getting blown up, trust me,” Jon replies. “And it’s _the Institute_ , I don’t think that the police are going to be too keen on sinking their teeth into _that_ arson case.”

“Fair, fair,” Martin acquiesces. “Let’s… limit how long you have to be up there, though, okay? I don’t like seeing you like that, it… it scares me a lot.”

“Alright. You go ahead with Elias and take care of the CO2, then start the fire. You can come get me once that’s all set and we can leave out the stairwell exit, that’ll be the fastest route.”

“Okay, alright, got it.” Martin is silent for a moment, before letting out a deep sigh. “You’ll be alright down here on your own?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll just… sit against the wall I guess,” Jon reassures him. He pulls the lighter from his pocket and presses it into Martin’s hand. “Good luck.”

“Okay,” Martin says, though Jon can hear the uncertainty in his voice. He nearly jumps when Martin puts a hand on his shoulder but relaxes when a kiss is pressed to his cheek. “I’ll be back soon.”

Jon hears his footsteps ascending the short staircase followed by the creaking of the trapdoor, and then silence. He sighs, backing up against the wall and sliding down into a sitting position.

Though he doesn’t want to admit it, he still hasn’t fully recovered from the Panopticon. While his recall ability has improved dramatically since reentering the tunnels, his thoughts are still jumbled, and he can feel the beginnings of an intense headache coming on. The prospect of entering the Institute, while necessary, leaves him with an overwhelming sense of dread that he now has to sit with all by his lonesome for who knows how long.

He’s drawn out of his thoughts by the creak of a door opening. He stills as he quickly realizes that the sound has come in the complete opposite direction of the trapdoor.

“Well well well, it’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”

“Helen,” Jon says shortly. He doesn’t bother standing, knowing there’s little he can do in this situation if she really has any intentions of doing him harm. His legs begin to shake as anxiety starts to take hold.

“Well that’s hardly the way to greet an old friend, especially when it’s been… oh how long has it been? A few months? Time can be so hard sometimes.”

“What do you want?” Jon asks, not bothering to answer her question.

Helen tuts. “I only wanted to say hello, check up on the happy couple,” she says teasingly. Jon shifts uncomfortably at her tone. “Seems I’ve missed him, though. I’m _so_ glad you managed to make things work.”

Jon sighs. “Right, well if that’s all, can you please _leave_?”

“Oh, but we have so much to catch up on!” she says gleefully. “You successfully dismantled Elias’s ritual, for one. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You knew what he was doing and did nothing to stop it,” Jon says, brows furrowed. “Why?”

“Well I didn’t _know_ , I only suspected,” Helen corrects him. “I was curious to see how it’d all play out, and in my opinion, a world in which his ritual succeeded would have been _very_ fun.”

“Fun?”

“A world ruled by fear and unbound by all the pesky rules that currently limit it? Frankly, I think that would have been quite enjoyable, for both me and you.”

“How exactly would that have been fun for _me_?”

“You could have been all-powerful, had all of the knowledge in the world at your fingertips. Is that not what you’ve always wanted?”

“Not for the price it would have come at, no,” Jon says firmly. “When I blinded myself… I didn’t _want_ to die, but if that had been the cost of putting an end to all of this… even if I’d _known_ that doing it would kill… I don’t think I would have done anything differently.”

Helen hums. “You really are an enigma, Jon,” she says, something like amusement in her tone. “Even if you did rob me of a wonderland of chaos, I never saw this being the way things would turn out. It’ll be quite dull without you or your Institute around, though. Guess I’ll have to pursue new avenues of fomenting terror.”

Jon purses his lips, remaining silent. Distantly, he hears the sound of the fire alarm start to ring.

“That’ll be your boyfriend,” Helen remarks. “Shame that he has to do all the work, cleaning up what really is _your_ mess.”

“Shut up,” Jon says.

“Oh, but it’s true isn’t it? He really would be better off without you, you know. If it hadn’t been for his susceptibility to the Lonely, I doubt Elias would have ever transferred him to the Archives.”

“ _Jonah’s_ actions were not within my control,” Jon spits out, clenching his fist. “I know I’ve made a lot of poor choices and done a lot of regrettable things, but not _everything_ that has happened to us has been _my_ fault.”

There’s a brief silence, then a sigh. “You’re no fun,” she says. Jon hears footsteps retreating and then a small creak. “Guess I’ll be off. Even if you don’t care to acknowledge it, I’d savour your time with him, if I were you. No telling when he’ll get tired of all that doting.”

Jon scowls. “Pleasure seeing you, too, _Helen_ ,” he says contemptuously. 

There’s a slow creaking, the click of a door shutting, and then silence. 

Jon exhales heavily, flapping his hand absently in an attempt to calm himself. His mind is racing with too many thoughts to keep track of.

He does his best to shake off Helen’s words, not give her the satisfaction of letting those seeds of doubt take root. He knows that he’s still capable of taking care of himself, even if he’s still learning. He’s only been blind for a couple of months, and as much as he wishes it wasn’t the case, adapting to this new way of living is going to take him time, and all things considered he’s been doing well. He may not be there yet, but he will be.

He repeats this in his head like a mantra, doing his best to drown out Helen’s parting words as he drums a steady rhythm against his thigh. It’s hard to say exactly how long this goes on, but he nearly jumps out of his skin when the trapdoor opens, allowing the drone of the alarm to echo clearly into the tunnel.

“Alright we have got to _go_ ,” Martin says frantically, voice accompanied by his fast descending footsteps. “I lit a couple of small fires further back in the stacks and threw a couple of boxes of old statements onto it for good measure.”

Jon takes a deep breath, retrieving his cane and rising to his feet. “Let’s get this over with, then,” he says as Martin links their arms.

They ascend the stairs quickly, and Jon braces himself as they emerge into his old office.

The second he sets foot into the room, the familiar, oppressive force of withholding falls over him, but like in the Panopticon, he pushes back against it. He does his best not to think about anything, not to try and actively recall any information. All he can focus on is putting one foot in front of the other and getting out of this place as quickly as possible.

“Alright, this way, this way,” a voice—Martin, it’s Martin, says beside him. “The fire’s already getting pretty big— _Christ_ , alright we need to get moving, try to keep your head low.”

Jon can distinctly feel the dry, oppressive heat in the room and the smell of smoke around him. He forces himself to ignore it, not letting himself try to remember why there’s a fire. All he needs to do is focus on getting to safety.

Martin leads them out of the hot room, their shoes squeaking on the linoleum beneath their feet. Before long they’re ascending a staircase, and the smoke starts to become more oppressive. Jon coughs, stumbling as they come to a landing. Jon hears the sound of a door being opened and then suddenly clarity is washing over him as they step out into the crisp January air.

Jon breathes in deeply, savouring the fresh air and his release from the Eye’s grasp.

“You okay?” Martin asks, sounding concerned.

“Been better,” Jon admits, coughing lightly. “We need to keep moving, though, get away before someone spots us.”

“Don’t need to ask me twice,” Martin replies. “God, I _hate_ fire.”

They begin walking away at a brisk pace, and Jon can hear as the alarms fade into the distance. As they walk, the sound of sirens begins to blare in the distance. Neither of them says a word as they walk, and after they’ve put some distance between themselves and the Institute, Jon starts to hear people around them as they walk. Hurried conversations in hushed tones, some concerned shouts, and general chatter fill the streets as people begin to notice the smoke that has no doubt begun to air out of the building.

Suddenly, a resounding boom echoes through the streets, accompanied by scattered screams. Martin stops, and Jon stills at his side, gripping his arm tightly.

“That’ll be the gas main,” Martin says quietly. “I hope everyone made it out okay.”

“You pulled the alarm before the fire even started, they should be fine,” Jon reassures him, though he himself feels paranoia gnawing away at him. 

They stand together in silence as the distant wail of the fire engines echoes through the streets. These past few years, Jon has been involved in a great many cataclysms, but for the first time, he thinks that maybe this one will be the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Arson, fire/burning building, temporary memory loss, ableism, self-hatred, feelings of inadequacy, anxiety.
> 
> >Helen Distortion has entered the chat.
> 
> Apologies for the delay in posting! I'm all out of pre-written material and haven't had much time this week to work on this. Because I've got classes starting next week, I've decided I'm going to be posting the remaining chapters on a BIWEEKLY schedule, so no chapter next week I'm afraid. It'll make things easier on me to have that buffer time while I'm doing my coursework, and I guarantee it'll improve the quality of the writing.
> 
> Hope yall enjoyed the arson tho :)
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	19. Tranquil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin finally get a moment of peace.

The days following the fire pass in an almost trance-like state. Nothing feels quite real, as though their experiences in the prison and Institute had been just a dream, the details washed away in the days following. Jon isn’t entirely sure if the feeling comes as a result of his grapple with the Eye, or if it’s simply his mind processing the intensity of what they’ve done. 

The fire at the Institute had received extensive coverage by news stations. Despite the Institute’s less than favourable standing in the public eye, a 200-year-old research institution in the heart of Chelsea burning to the ground in a fire that also claimed the life of the institute’s head is quite the front-page news story. The gas main explosion had taken out a significant section of the small building, while the rest of the building had been taken out by the fire. Between the explosion and the flames, the Archives had been incinerated beyond recognition. Hundreds of years of historical records lost in a single afternoon. The building had burned for hours.

Just as Jon had predicted, law enforcement has failed to contact them at any point in the intervening time since the fire. He knows it must be quite an obvious arson case between the fire suppression system failing and the fact that fire doesn’t destroy fingerprints, but no one bothers them. As much as he wishes he could just enjoy the peace, Jon finds the lack of contact unnerving. He’s glad his assumption had been correct, but the lingering paranoia over being discovered still hangs over him. 

They do their best to settle into some semblance of normalcy. No longer bound by the safehouse’s lack of a television, they have far more options for things to occupy their time with. Much to Jon’s amusement, Martin begins trying to get him to watch some of the many soap operas he indulges in. Martin insists he just watches them because he finds them amusing, though Jon can tell that he’s far more invested in the characters than he cares to admit (and he will take any opportunity presented to him to tease Martin about this). While he finds the premises of most of the shows fairly bland and poorly concocted, Martin’s enthusiasm for them makes it far easier to sit through the painfully cliched writing.

Jon, in turn, gets Martin to sit through a number of documentaries that have been on his list for a long time, but, out of not having the time to sit down and indulge himself, had never seen before. Martin usually falls asleep after an hour or so, often signalled by his head slumping down to rest against Jon’s. He always apologizes profusely when Jon gently shakes him awake at the end so they can relocate to their bed, but Jon just appreciates that he makes the effort to stay up and watch at all.

Jon, with some assistance from Martin, busies himself with finally setting up the accessibility settings on his phone, as well as ordering tactile labelling materials to use around the flat. It had been daunting at first, but as he begins to use the navigation features more and more, he finds that he’s able to adjust to the new format with relative ease. It’s a relief to have one more familiar thing back under his control, even if the way in which he accesses it has changed.

A couple of days after the fire, Martin returns to his apartment briefly to grab some of his possessions which he’d left when packing for the safehouse. The array is mostly clothing, old books, and notebooks, but he also brings with him a small speaker set-up which he puts to use almost immediately. 

Jon, despite his passable musical abilities, has never been the one to listen to music on the regular. If he does find himself in the mood for some background ambience, he usually listens to classical or soundtrack music. It’s not that he dislikes other genres, it’s just that it’s never been a significant fascination for him. Martin’s music tastes are much broader than his, however, and he seems to make it his personal mission to introduce Jon to as many artists as possible and find something that he likes that isn’t Tchaikovsky or Wagner or some other man who’s been dead for well over a hundred years.

Martin will play all sorts of music over the speakers, starting off with mostly instrumental pieces from modern composers, which Jon does find he enjoys, before moving on to genres more outside his comfort zone. Most of the music seems to be more subdued, nowhere near as abrasive as the music Jon made during his short time in a band. The genres range from pop to indie rock to folk to “lo-fi, and he finds that he enjoys it all far more than he would have expected. It’s calming in a way he hadn’t anticipated, and he begins to wonder if he’s been missing out all these years.

One night, after they’ve both eaten a generous helping of takeaway curry, Jon hears the familiar tone of the speaker connecting and smiles.

“What’ll it be tonight?” he asks, leaning his head back to rest on the back of the couch. 

“I was thinking something acoustic,” Martin says from across the room, the end pitched up in a way that almost turns the statement into a question. Jon may not know much about music, but he does appreciate that Martin still wants to take his preferences into account.

“Well go on then,” Jon says fondly.

There’s a brief moment where the only sounds breaking the silence are the sounds of cars and distant sirens from outside. Then, the sounds of the city are washed away as gentle guitar strumming fills the room. 

The tune is almost familiar, momentarily drawing Jon’s mind back to a time before the institute, back in his university days when Georgie would insist on playing her mixes over the tape deck of her busted-up sedan. It’s a calm, slow song, and as the vocals start in he sighs softly, relaxing in his seat. 

He hears footsteps cross over to him and pause. 

“Would you, erm, want to uh—,” Martin says haltingly, voice only just above a whisper. Jon raises an eyebrow. “Would you want to dance? Maybe?”

Jon lets out a surprised laugh. “I’m _really_ not much of a dancer,” he says, unable to fight off an amused grin.

“Well neither am _I_ , I just… it might be nice?” Martin says, and Jon can almost hear the blush in his voice. “Never really... had someone to dance with.”

Jon hums and after a moment’s hesitation extends a hand in Martin’s direction. A gentle but firm hand takes his and carefully helps him to his feet. Martin walks them to the centre of the room before guiding Jon’s hand to his shoulder. Jon feels hands come to rest on his hips, and he clasps his hands behind Martin’s neck. Once they’re in place, they slowly begin to sway in time with the music.

Neither of them says a word as the music plays, and Jon rests his head against Martin’s shoulder. After a moment, he feels Martin’s head lean against his, and he feels his heart beating insistently in his chest. For a moment, everything else seems to slip away, and all that matters is him, Martin, and the slow music steadily guiding their movements.

“Y’know, I always hoped we’d be able to do something like this,” Martin whispers. “Just a little bit of peace without the looming dread of the world ending hanging over us. It always felt like a fantasy, though.”

“Me too,” Jon says softly, voice catching in his throat. “I never thought we’d be… allowed that kind of blessing, but… here we are.”

“Here we are,” Martin echoes. 

They sway together in silence for a moment. It begins to hit Jon that this really is the first time that they’ve had a moment like this where there wasn’t some threat of impending doom lurking on the horizon, nothing to justifiably be fearful of. Sure, his anxieties over the other avatars or being prosecuted for all of what went on at the Institute aren’t nonexistent, but they’ve fallen to the backdrop. They no longer consume his every waking moment, nor do they form the foundation for his every future plan. He’s allowed to make a proper, mostly normal life for himself now. The thought is terrifying but also thrilling. 

“What do we do now?” he asks quietly. “We’ve quite literally burned all our bridges, so what next?”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to find a new job,” Martin says with a half-hearted laugh. “Maybe I can get a recommendation from Diana since you’re a bit biased.”

“Diana…?”

“The head librarian? God, you really didn’t know anyone outside the Archives, did you?” Martin asks, amused.

“Yes, well… suppose I was a bit preoccupied with trying to keep up with a job I was _very_ unqualified for,” Jon replies.

Martin snorts. “Yeah, because I couldn't _possibly_ know what that feels like,” he says. “Really though… it’s weird to think about. Moving on.”

“We should probably look into getting that therapy you’d talked about,” Jon says, keeping his tone lighthearted.

“You mean it?” Martin asks, his voice full of poorly concealed surprise. “I didn’t think you were up for that just yet?”

Jon shrugs. “I think… I think I’m willing to give it a shot,” he says. “I don’t know if it will work for me but… at the very least it’ll be a step forward. And there are therapists trained in working with the blind and I rather think it’d be nice to get advice from a trained professional rather than just relying on internet blog posts.”

“I’m… I’m glad,” Martin says quietly. “I think I’ll look into it for myself as well, actually. We’ve both got a lot to unpack.”

“Hopefully our next job doesn’t saddle us with even more trauma to work through,” Jon says. “The last few years have been enough for a lifetime.”

“A lifetime… funny to think we actually might _get_ that,” Martin muses. “After all those times narrowly escaping death, now we actually get to _live_.”

Jon sucks in a breath. He finds himself at a loss for words, chest near bursting with a sudden flood of relief and disbelief and _love_. For a moment his emotions overwhelm him and he hides his face in the crook of Martin’s neck. He breathes in deep, centring himself and letting the idea that they are really, truly _free_ sink in.

“Now we get to live,” he repeats finally as they sway together, and for a moment, that’s all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the end! But we're getting close. Just a few more things to wrap up :)
> 
> Sorry for the late update, I got a bit overwhelmed by college and personal life things the past couple weeks. Hopefully next update will be posted on time. (Oct 23rd)
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	20. Catharsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon takes an important first step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check endnotes for warnings!

“Right, so would you like me to wait for you in the reception area or meet you outside or—?”

“ _Martin_ , I’m alright, you can stop fretting,” Jon cuts him off, laughing shakily. “You seem more worried about this than I am.”

“I just want this to be a good experience for you is all,” Martin relents, voice dropping so that passersby won’t be able to eavesdrop. “You said last time that your experience with therapy hadn’t been very good, I don’t want that to happen again.”

“To be fair, my prior experience was grief counsellors after my parents’ deaths and getting evaluated pre-transition,” Jon says quietly. “The former wasn’t going to be fun regardless and the latter was just very… _clinical_. I was more focused on getting a diagnosis and leaving with my letter than actually working through any of my issues. I think this will be markedly different.”

Jon had spent a couple of weeks researching different therapists in the local area, focusing his search on therapists versed in working with visually impaired clients whose rates wouldn’t empty out their savings after only a couple of visits. After a handful of phone consultations, he’d eventually settled on a woman named Sophia located in Bromley. While it was a longer commute than some of the other therapists he’d spoken with, her rate was much more affordable and he’d felt as though he’d connected with her more than the others. 

“I hope so,” Martin says softly. He still sounds on edge, though he’s doing a commendable job of trying to hide it. “So... reception area, then?”

“Yes, you’re welcome to wait in reception for me,” Jon says with a smile. “Though I can’t imagine sitting in some stiff chair in a quiet room for forty minutes will be all that exciting.”

“I was actually thinking of taking a walk while you’re in there,” Martin says timidly. “There’s a little park around the corner, thought I might stretch my legs. I’d be back by the time your session ends, though.”

“Alright,” Jon replies. He takes a deep breath and exhales heavily. “Let’s go in then, shall we?”

The building isn’t all that large, though more than one practice has offices on-premises. The man at the front desk directs them to the second floor, pointing them in the direction of the elevators. Their walk to the office is without circumstance and soon enough they find themselves seated in a quiet waiting room five minutes before Jon’s appointment is set to start. 

Jon finds himself bouncing his leg restlessly, absently picking at his fingernails as he does his best to fight down the anxiety clawing at the pit of his stomach. He knows logically that this is going to be fine (or at the very least hopes), but he can’t stop the endless cycle of terrible hypotheticals running through his thoughts.

His train of thought is broken when he feels two hands gently take his, halting his fidgeting abruptly.

“You’re going to make yourself bleed again if you keep that up,” Martin says quietly.

Jon hums discontentedly, carefully withdrawing his hands from Martin’s, though he doesn’t resume his picking. Instead, he diverts his attention to the sleeves of his cardigan, worrying the cuff between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Jonathan?”

Jon instinctually raises his head at the sound of his name, though he doesn’t immediately turn his head towards the voice. “That’d be me,” he says, quickly rising to his feet.

“Lovely to meet you in person,” Sophia says warmly, and Jon can hear that she’s moved closer to him. “And who’s this who you’ve brought with you?”

“Oh, erm, this is my partner, Martin,” Jon replies. “He’s just here to accompany me for my first couple of appointments until I feel comfortable making the journey on my own.”

“Well it’s lovely to meet you as well, Martin,” Sophia says. “Shall we go inside?”

“Yes, o-of course,” Jon says. “I’ll see you in a bit, Martin.”

“See you then,” Martin replies. Jon hears him stand before leaning close enough that only he can hear him. “Try to relax, you’re going to do fine.”  
Jon smiles shakily. “I’ll do my best.”

“Alright, this way, then,” Sophia says, and Jon follows the sound of her footsteps without difficulty. “How have you been?”

“Okay, a-and you?”

“Pretty good myself,” she replies, and Jon can feel the difference in their surroundings as they enter a smaller room. “There’s a sofa straight ahead and to your right if you’d like to sit down.”

He nods, easily finding the sofa and sitting down carefully, folding up his cane and setting it down in his lap. He hears a door shut and Sophia settles herself across from him.

“So how long have you and Martin been together?” she asks. There’s genuine curiosity and warmth in her tone and Jon can feel himself slowly relaxing.

“A few months now?” Jon says, momentarily taken aback both by how quickly time has passed and how little time it is in the grand scheme of their relationship as a whole. “It’s a bit complicated. Technically we’ve been together since September, but we knew each other through work before that.”

“Oh, were you coworkers?”

Jon flinches a bit. “Er, technically I was his boss? We’d both effectively quit by the time we properly got together, though.”

“Has that affected your relationship at all, do you think?”

“Maybe? I don’t think there’s really any… power imbalance or any typical concerns like that? There was when we first started working together even though we were both horribly underqualified for our respective positions, but we came to think of each other as equals towards the end of it. By that point neither of us had wanted to work there for a couple of years.”

“Why’s that?”

“Erm… restrictive working contracts?” Jon says, thinking fast. “Let’s just say our boss was… very manipulative. He had a lot of connections, threw a lot of weighted threats at us about what would happen if we left.”

“But you were able to leave eventually?”

“Yes, though it wasn’t pleasant,” Jon says, laughing bitterly. “He passed away and the company collapsed, which is the only reason we were really able to escape.”

“Well, I’m sorry that you had to go through that,” she says, and her tone seems genuine. “I know you’d mentioned a toxic work environment as one of your concerns during our consultation. Is that something that you’d like to talk about a bit more in-depth?”

Jon freezes for a moment, anxiety pervading his thoughts. He can only spin so many lies around the Institute without revealing too much. 

He takes a deep breath. “I’d rather not go into detail about it,” he says, beginning to fidget with his sleeve again.

“That’s perfectly alright, you can tell me as much about it as you feel comfortable disclosing,” she says gently. “If talking about it is too much for you right now I won’t pressure you to tell me anything.”

Jon nods. “Alright,” he says before going quiet for a moment. 

Telling her too many details about his time at the Institute is something he knows will only end poorly, though he figures there are certain experiences he may be able to discuss with her at some point as long as he omits the more supernatural aspects of the encounters. Today, however, is not that day.

“Let’s just say that I’m thankful to have Martin in the aftermath,” Jon says, redirecting the conversation. “He went through a lot of the same things I did and then some, so he understands. I don’t know what I would have done without his support, and I think that feeling goes both ways.”

“I’m glad you’ve had someone like that to anchor you,” Sophia remarks. “It sounds like you’ve both offered each other some level of stability at a time when you both really needed it.”

Jon smiles softly. “We have,” he says, a pool of warmth building in his chest. “I really think we have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Therapy session, anxiety, skin-picking, brief mentions of manipulation.
> 
> Hi everyone! I'm a bit late again, sorry about that! I had some unexpected stuff come up in my personal life that disrupted my schedule. Thankfully I'm getting back on track so I'm hoping to have the next two chapters out in a bit more timely manner (might be able to release them on back to back weeks but don't get your hopes up!)
> 
> Hopefully, next update will be up on November 6th.
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	21. Mending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in the endnotes, as usual!

The anxiety Jon feels strumming through his body like an electrical current is almost unbearable as he stands on the doorstep. He’s been trying to build up the courage to knock for who knows how long at this point, and he’s still torn on whether or not he should even be here.

As seems to be the case a lot these days, Martin had talked him into making this particular visit. It’s been over a month since the fall of the Institute, and things are starting to settle back into some semblance of normalcy.

Based on the last update they’d received from Basira, Daisy’s condition seems to be improving somewhat. It’s unclear how long it’ll take her to return to normal, or if that’s even possible at this point. Basira hadn’t offered them any further details, and they hadn’t heard from her for a couple of weeks at this point. 

Jon isn’t entirely surprised that there’s been little effort to keep in touch. They were never quite “friends,” moreso acquaintances forced into cooperating with one another out of necessity. Daisy, at least, he had been able to commiserate with, but that’s still a far cry from genuine friendship. He’s not sure he could ever forgive her enough to really be friends with her. The one person he could maybe consider a friend (and even that assumption is tenuous at best) is the person whose flat he currently stands in front of.

Martin had encouraged him to make this trip today, and it had also come with a fair bit of encouragement from Sophia. Jon knows that he has no intention of involving himself further with the fears, which should play to his benefit, but he can never be sure with her. He understands where she’s coming from, especially looking back on many of the choices he’s made in his life, but he hopes that she’ll be more receptive considering the circumstances.

A particularly cold gust of wind buffers him and he reluctantly reaches forward and knocks.

There’s a muffled voice and the distant sound of movement, followed by the click of a lock before the door creaks open slightly. Then a moment of silence.

“...Hello?” Jon says hesitantly.

“Jon,” Georgie replies. There’s an underlying aspect of surprise to her tone, though Jon can tell she’s trying her best to remain neutral. “Back from the Highlands, then?”

“Yes, I… I just wanted to see how you both are doing,” Jon says, fidgeting with his cane. “I promise, I’m here as a friend. No ulterior motives.”

“So was that business with the fire at the Institute you, then?” she asks. “Didn’t think you had the guts to pull something like that.”

“I don’t think I could have moved on otherwise,” Jon admits. “And it was Martin, Basira, and me, really, but it’s all the same.”

“So is that the end of it? No more throwing yourself in the way of supernatural horrors?”

Jon laughs wryly. “I _really_ hope so.”

Georgie sighs. “Come on in, then, don’t want you catching a cold,” she says, and Jon lets out a breath of relief.

Jon doesn’t realize just how cold he’d been until he steps into the comfortably heated interior of Georgie’s flat. Almost as soon as he’s inside he hears the sound of fast, small footsteps and an excited mewling.

Jon smiles as he crouches down carefully. “Hello, Admiral,” he says fondly, reaching out to pet the purring cat. He feels the press of the Admiral’s cheek against his palm and chuckles, scritching behind his ear.

“Amazing how fond he is of you even after all this time,” Georgie says. “Animals always seem to like you much more readily than people do.”

“I resent that statement.”

“Mhmm, I’m sure you do,” Georgie says with a laugh. “Let me get your coat, I know I said I didn’t want you catching a cold but I’d rather you not get heatstroke either.”

Jon hesitantly removes his coat and hands it off to Georgie. He honestly hadn’t expected to make it this far. He’d spent most of his commute preparing himself to be turned away at the door, so he’s not entirely sure how to proceed.

“Melanie should be down in a bit, she tends to sleep in,” Georgie says from across the room. “Can I get you something to drink? I know you’ve never been one for tea, but—“

“I’ll er, I’ll take a cup of tea, actually,” he cuts her off. “No cream, two sugars.”

There’s a pause. “You really have changed, haven’t you?” Georgie says, laughing. “Come a long way from drinking Monster Energy out of a mug in uni.”

“Yes, well I doubt you have any energy drinks on hand,” Jon huffs, fighting off a smile. “And erm… Martin was always quite insistent on bringing me tea during late nights in the Archives and after a while, I just… warmed up to it.”

“How’s he doing?” Georgie asks, walking to the kitchen. “I only ever met him once and he seemed pretty… closed off.”

“Yes, well, he was dealing with a lot then,” Jon says. “He’s doing much better now, though. Job searching at the moment.”

“Oh? How about you?”

“I… I’d like to adjust a bit more to my new, er, circumstances before I start seeking out employment. Learn the ropes of accessibility programs, learn braille, all that.”

“Did you get here on your own?”

“Yes, I’ve been practising navigating on my own. It’s not easy but I’m starting to get the hang of it. There’s a frustrating lack of proper accommodations.”

Georgie hums. “Yeah, Melanie’s been dealing with that, too,” she remarks. “There’s ways of working around it but that really shouldn’t be necessary, y’know?”

“Yeah…”

The kettle whistles and Jon carefully navigates over to the couch, sitting down upon determining he won’t be crushing the Admiral with the action.

Careful footsteps begin to descend the stairs, and Jon perks up.

“Melanie?”

“Jon,” Melanie says, reaching the landing. “Thought I heard you, your voice tends to carry.”

Jon feels himself flush a little bit. Volume control hasn’t always been his strong suit. 

“Yes, well, it’s me,” he says. “How’re you? How have your eyes been recovering?

“Ended up having to get them taken out, which I wasn’t too broken up about,” she says, crossing the room and sitting next to him. “Recovery has gone smoothly, though. My therapist still isn’t very happy with me but I think the fact I seem to be improving is somewhat reassuring to her.”

“Well, that’s good at least.”

“I heard about the Institute. Was that you?”

“Mainly Martin and Basira but yes, I was also involved.”

“Damn. Good on you for off-ing Bouchard, though. Can’t imagine that was easy.”

“It wasn’t. Discovered some, erm, side effects of breaking my connection to the Eye, but I’m hoping I never have to involve myself again enough for it to take effect.”

“So you’re proper done with it, then?”

“That’s the goal,” he replies with a smile.

“Didn’t think you’d ever manage to get out of that hell hole. Didn’t think you wanted to, to be honest.”

“I don’t think I did either, not until the end,” Jon replies. “Definitely for the better that I did, though.”

“Cheers to that.”

Georgie reenters the room, walking over to where they’re seated. “Hold out your hands, Jon,” she says. He does so and feels a warm mug pressed into his hands, which he takes from her carefully. “I didn’t fill it too high so as long as you’re careful you shouldn’t spill.”

“Thank you,” Jon says, taking a sip. It could use a bit more sugar, but he’s not about to complain.

“So how’re your eyes?” Melanie asks “I don’t really know too much about chemical burns.”

“I have to go in every few weeks for check-ups but they seem to have healed fine. No chance of my vision recovering, so that’s a relief. Probably shouldn’t have to have them removed, though that’s always an option.”

“It’s not all that bad, to be honest,” Melanie says, and Jon hears her prop her legs up on the table in front of them. “Thought it’d be weird but I can just throw on some sunglasses when I go out. Excellent for scaring the hell out of some asshole Tories when they give me a hard time.”

Jon snorts, setting down his tea.

“So what have you two been up to?”

“Not much, mostly just podcast stuff,” Georgie replies. “Melanie’s started co-hosting on What the Ghost.”

“Lots of people who knew me from Ghost Hunt UK started listening,” Melanie says. “Most of them thought I’d lost it since the last time they’d heard from me was that video of me yelling at those junkyard guards."

Jon chuckles. “Can only imagine the theories that must be circulating on Twitter,” he remarks.

“Yeah, it’s been pretty entertaining to watch,” Melanie says. “What about you, what have you been up to outside of plotting the Institute’s demise.”

“I, erm, I started seeing a therapist? She’s specialized in providing support for those with vision loss which is especially helpful. I’ve been learning braille, which is slow going but I think I’m starting to catch on to it. Other than that, not much. Watching telly with Martin and cooking, I suppose.”

“Never thought I’d see the day Jonathan 'Self-Described Workaholic' Sims would settle into domestic life,” Georgie says.

“I’ll have you know I’m looking into starting a PGCE course once I’m a bit more confident in my understanding of braille. I’m not entirely out of the game.”

“Teaching? You mean you’d be working with kids?” Melanie asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Preferably year ten or older, but yes, children,” Jon says. “I’ve rather lost my appetite for a career in research or archiving and this feels a bit more… substantial.”

“Wow,” Melanie says. “Good luck with all that. Try not to take their heads off for forgetting to use an oxford comma.”

“I know, I think I’ve learned by this point that that wouldn’t be conducive to a productive working environment,” Jon says. “That and I wouldn’t want to be that teacher every student dreads having a class with.”

“Look how far you’ve come,” Georgie says. It’s teasing, but there’s some genuine pride beneath it. “A couple years back and you’d be going on about how the oxford comma is one of the most basic rules of punctuation and any year ten who doesn’t already follow it deserves to suffer the consequences.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Jon says dryly, though he knows there’s truth to it. “It’s probably still a long ways off but erm, that’s my long-term goal.”

“Definitely a good thing to have,” Georgie says. “Y’know, if you’d like something to occupy yourself with in the meantime, you’re welcome to guest star on What the Ghost?”

“You’d want _me_ to be on your podcast?” he asks in disbelief.

“You’ve definitely got the voice for it, I’ve listened through the statements you filmed back in the Archives,” Melanie points out. “Wouldn’t have to be often but it’s definitely something to fill time.”

“We could make a sort of character out of it, have you on as the ‘sceptic’ who goes over all the refutations of the different cases we talk about,” Georgie says.

Jon huffs, somewhat baffled by the offer. “I really don’t…” he trails off, contemplating. What harm could it really do? Who knows, it could even be fun. He sighs. “You know what? Sure.”

“Really?” Melanie says, surprised. “I did _not_ expect you to actually accept that.”

“If you’d rather I not join I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“No!” Georgie cuts him off. “No, we’d love to have you, just, erm, thought you’d be more resistant.”

Jon smiles. “Glad to have exceeded your expectations, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Discussion of medical care/surgery.
> 
> Hi everyone, sorry for the wait but I hope it was worth it! I'm releasing the last two chapters together so you don't have to wait for the conclusion. :)
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram!


	22. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. :)

“Where should I put this jade plant?” Martin calls from across the room, and Jon sighs as he sets down the box he’s carrying.

“Any windowsill will do, I’m not sure which areas get the best sunlight, though,” he replies.

In the whirlwind of the past few years, Jon had forgotten just how exhausting moving can be. Packing had been relatively painless, but getting everything into Jon’s flat and now figuring out where to put them is proving to be a bit more difficult. 

It really shouldn’t have taken them so long to get to this point. Martin has been living at Jon’s flat for over four months, at this point, so Jon had felt a bit foolish when he realized he’d never properly invited Martin to move in with him.

Things had happened to work out perfectly, by some miracle, as Martin’s lease had been about to end when he’d asked. He’d said yes as if it wasn’t even a question. The way he’d answered with so much certainty had made Jon’s heart race.

Now they’ve been slowly integrating all of Martin’s possessions with Jon’s. In all honest, Martin didn’t have much in his old flat. They sold his small assortment of pots and pans that Jon already had a similar version of, as well as his old bed and most of the furniture. What they ended up keeping was mostly a couple of side tables, an armchair, some books, a few plants, the remainder of Martin’s clothes, and a random assortment of decorations. 

“I think I’m going to start on dinner, anything you’d like in particular?” Jon says, resigning himself to the fact.

“I’m up to anything you’re up to making, love,” Martin says. “Maybe something spicy?”

“I can make some stir fry, I’ve got chicken ready in the fridge,” Jon offers.

“Sounds good to me,” Martin replies. “I’m going to go put my clothes away, I think we’re mostly done.”

“Give me a shout if you need anything,” Jon says, before making his way to the kitchen.

He selects his usual array of spices with an ease that only grows stronger each time he prepares a meal. He runs his thumb over the lid, noting the braille labels he’d added to differentiate each jar. Chopping vegetables is almost second nature at this point, and a cursory touch confirms the pieces are all adequately sized. 

Using a pan is something that has taken a bit more practice. He’s begun to be able to recognize when a meal is done cooking from smell and sound alone, though often he still relies on timers, just to play it safe. As a last resort, he can call Martin in to let him know if anything needs more time. All in all, Jon finds that cooking without sight means offering the process his undivided attention.

As he leaves the rice to cook, he hears Martin exclaim from the other room, and he pauses.

“Everything alright?” he calls. He gets no response, but a moment later hears footsteps quickly approaching the kitchen.

“You remember that librarian position I applied for?” Martin asks excitedly, and Jon’s eyebrows fly up.

“The one you said had a salary higher than what you were making in the Archives?” Jon asks, a smile creeping across his face.

“I got it! I got the job!”

Jon beams, opening his arms and letting Martin engulf him in a tight embrace. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Jon says softly. He feels Martin trembling slightly, though for once he isn’t worried by it. “You deserve this.”

“I can’t believe I got it,” Martin whispers, awed. “Guess Diana gave me a good reference after all.”

“I mean you did work under her for what, ten years?”

“Yeah, guess she took more notice than I thought. Or maybe it was just out of pity. Either way, I’ve got a _job_.”

“Based on what you’ve said about her she doesn’t seem much the type for giving pity references,” Jon assures him, smiling.

Jon squeezes him once before drawing back from the hug. He quickly returns his attention to the stove, checking to make sure their dinner won’t burn. 

“I’m going to go email them back to accept the offer officially, be back in a moment,” Martin says, and Jon feels a hand on his shoulder. He tilts his head to the side and feels Martin’s lips press against his for a brief moment.

“I love you,” Jon says as they pull apart, smiling gently.

“I love you, too,” Martin replies, voice soft.

“Now go make a good first impression with your boss, try not to have a repeat of the dog incident,” Jon teases, and Martin scoffs dramatically.

“Oh, you found that endearing, admit it,” Martin says as he exits. 

“Can’t guarantee the same for your next boss, unless you plan on leaving me destitute and running off with them.”

“I’d _never_.”

Jon chuckles as he resumes working on their meal. While he knows life probably won’t stop throwing them curveballs any time soon, for the first time he can recall, Jon feels as though the future ahead of them is bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for joining me on this journey. This is the longest thing I've ever written and I'm really proud of how it turned out in the end!
> 
> I cannot express how much gratitude I have for all the support you've shown this fic. I started working on this a few days after catching up with the podcast and wrote it entirely out of self-indulgence, so the fact that so many others have found enjoyment in reading it means the world to me.
> 
> I intend on writing a sequel to this, though I'm not sure when it'll get posted. I only have it partially outlined at this point but I know it'll be much shorter than this. 
> 
> Thank you again for your support and patience (college was really kicking my ass the last few months, thus why I've only managed to finish this up now).
> 
> You can find me at @reidspng on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Edit 2/18/2021:   
> For anyone interested, I've compiled a Spotify playlist based on Anchored! I'll add songs to it periodically as I find them, feel free to comment suggestions here or send me an ask with them on tumblr!
> 
> [You can listen to it here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6Nzjz7c5cGC5222QIK6FpS?si=RE6k0Wg1TNGqhZegR-PPGA)


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